It's 3:00 a.m. again. I find myself wasting my time, and hating myself for it. I get on Facebook and read all of the crap everyone says. I convince myself it's real, and I convince myself that I am alone as I look at the pictures of everyone I care about. I stare at the picture and put my left hand on my chin. I love this person, but this is just a picture. There is nothing coming back but the smile from a face. I search for more authenticity, and I am at a loss. I run through my hands through my hair as the whole world hits me. I hate myself, I have no real talents, and my future is destitute. I am stressed, alone, afraid, and hopeless.
This pattern reoccurs nightly. Depression is a heavy, dark blanket, and I hate it more than any sickness I have yet experienced. I hate it because I feel at fault for every feeling I get. But . . . depression is more than that.
When I am walking on campus, my eyes are dry as I try harder and harder to look up, to maybe just see the sky and hope that something or someone is out there. People pass by and stare straight ahead. I look at their feet. Life is awful. I hate myself, and no one seems to care. That's what it is to me. When I was growing up, I believed religiously that my dad hated me and that they thought I was a failure; perhaps that was because I so strongly thought of that of myself? They always told me otherwise, but I was convinced they were lying through their teeth.
You might think, "Well, those are normal teenager things to feel! Everyone has a hard time eventually believing they are worth something!" What if I told you that this is just the start?
For the longest time, overwhelming worthlessness has tortured me. I would do poorly on an assignment and immediately start contemplating whether life was really worth it. I would do poorly on a test and I would begin to dream of suicide. I would get a poor grade and I couldn't get my mind off ropes around my neck or blood in the bathtub. I hit the bottom, and I am desperate for someone to grab my hand and pull me out of these asphyxiating shadows. I confide in a friend, and they tell me to cheer up. Just that. "One bad grade won't kill you," they say. "You just need to have a positive attitude." I throw their advice away because of it's useless practicality. I don't understand how to have a positive attitude, and I don't understand how this would help the situation. How can I have a positive attitude when all I can hear in my mind is, "Brett, kill yourself. The world would be much better off without you."
I apologize, I slid off into a tangent. What I am trying to communicate is that sometimes words aren't enough when someone with depression is at their worst. People don't understand what it is like to despise that person you see in the mirror. You hate this person you've become because you are letting yourself down. I hate this person I've become because I am letting myself down.
Please know, everyone, that suicidal threats are not made to threaten everyone else. When someone talks of wanting to kill themselves, the last thing they want to see you do is cry. Be strong for them. Hug them close and tell them you never want to lose them. Let you words sink into their mind through the skin; their ears are blocked. Suicidal feelings create a fragile situation that seems destined to fall and break, yet here's the catch; it isn't. Suicidal feelings are a terrible concoction stirred in isolation, and in the words of a wise friend, "Isolation is death." When I am depressed, reaching out isn't an option. So this is where the responsibility falls in your hands. REACH OUT. If you are their friend, ALWAYS LET THEM KNOW HOW MUCH YOU CARE ABOUT THEM. This may seem like my own selfish plea to snag whatever attention I can, but this isn't. It is the furthest thing from. This is for others who know someone who has depression. Reach out to them, and take them seriously. They care deeply about people, and they want people to care about them.
I apologize again because things are so much easier said than done. Sometimes actions are fruitless. I'm sorry.
I speak as though I have "come out of depression."
I still struggle with my medication. I still believe they don't work. I still feel suicidal often.
I guess I don't even know what I'm saying.
We need people, I suppose. Or maybe I'm just making up crap and everyone else who is unfortunate enough to have depression feels ever so differently than I.
Bring a fire to a body that houses winter.