A Conversation with Depression

Depression isn’t easy. And there isn’t a simple answer for it. Even though having a diagnosis has made life a little more understandable. It wasn’t a band aid and this wasn’t something that I could fix.

I think my biggest issue with my mental health is that isn’t not something I can really fix. I can’t really make it go away, and I won’t be able to wake up one day and be cured. And so many people treat it this way. Like it’s something that will go away. That over time you learn all your ticks and find the answers to keep it under control. And well for the most part, I can manage it, I also had to accept that some days simple can be bad days.

When you first get labeled with depression, especially when you’re young. There is a certain sense of justification for being a moody teenager who didn’t understand their emotions and why life felt awful. Though I could have benefited from having a proper diagnosis in high school and in university. I didn’t get myself looked after until I was 25. Mainly because it got worst over the pandemic and my transition from school to work. And it's not that I didn’t try to get help when I was younger. I just didn’t have much luck with it. Plus I was at the tail end of the era where it effectively wasn’t real. Sure we knew what it was and there was a concept, but it wasn’t something that lots of people had. And I’ll admit, I really didn’t look the part.

Where I mentally fit the bill. I kept myself held to a high standard when it came to how I presented myself. The only time I really slipped up was in high school when my grades did slip a bit and I couldn’t seem to help myself when it came to speaking with my English teacher. Plus I wasn’t a dummy. I wasn’t about to be labelled an attention whore because I made marks on my wrist. Not when there was so many other place to abuse that wouldn’t be seen. Not when you had a dress code and you were living in purity culture. And I found that I liked having this a hidden aspect of who I was. That and I was pretty embarrassed to be sad. I didn’t think there was anything worth being sad over. I didn’t have things as hard as other people and all my ideas of depressed people, had a good reason to be sad. Like abusive parents, extreme bullying, some kind of loss and so one. I simple did not fit the bill and I was convinced I wasn’t worth the time. Not when someone else likely needed it more than I did. Guess I was always a martyr in some regards.

So I thought I needed to find a way to either just be okay or to fix the issue. Because I didn’t really have one. Why did I believe this? Well, at one point I felt like I did need help. I was being constantly bullied by a group of guys, some of the people who were my best friends were starting to be really nasty to me, my mum had a stroke, and I’d lost my childhood cat. So I had every reason to be upset. So I booked an appointment with the school councilor and figured this would be good for me. I could talk about how I was hurting, the internal pressures I put on myself, how I felt about having to always put my sister first because she special needs and I felt guilty about it. I was really hopeful. Plus the councilor was the art teacher, and everyone really liked her. Well… all the popular kids liked her.

I saw her twice, maybe three times. I can’t really remember. And each time I felt worst. Instead of being helped, I was accused of needing attention and that maybe I was making up problems in my head, because with my mum sick and my sister, I wasn’t getting enough attention at home. And maybe she had some truth in it, I was an independent kid. I felt horrible. And I couldn’t even really lash out. The most of my lashing out was when my friend and I had an argument over a project and she couldn’t understand why I wanted to work so hard. I figured I was doing what the art teacher said I was. Looking for attention. I wasn’t depressed I was just vain.

Add that interaction and a few years of hanging out at the church and a bible camp… I was modified. Vanity was a sin, and a pretty big one. So I looked for a band aid. I looked for answers and solutions. Which was reading and throwing myself so deeply into school work. Which to the outside world means that I must have been cured. I took on a preppy person and mirrored myself after smart and successful characters from books and tv shows. My grades became the measure of how I was doing, and the way I could convince myself everything was okay. I was not traumatized, depressed or broken. I just simple need better discipline and determination to be the best.

I burnt out in 11th grade. To the point of panic attacks so bad I essentially have black out periods in my brain where I cannot remember where I went or what happened. Because I trusted my English Teacher I found a way to fix this as well. I don’t think I realized it was me fixing it. When I felt overwhelmed and need a break from class, I had 10 mins. Why? Because when it first happened I confided in him, and he made the offer to come looking after ten minutes. Even if other teachers didn’t know this rule, I could use this as an accountability check. If I can break down and ‘recover’ in ten minutes then I would be fine. Little tiny band aids over cracks from a serious wound. It didn’t last.

And I catch myself trying to do it still. I hate worrying people. I hate that my brain returns to being 13 and told I was just doing it for attention. That I would pretend to be fine, and isolate myself to an extent that by the time I have a bad day, I have a hard time treating myself with care. Because I am so tired of holding the world together. So when I have a bad day, I remember that depression isn’t something I can cure.

I’m not really sure why I wanted to talk about this. Or write about it. Part of me wonders if it’s just some attempt to be relevant and call myself a writer. Another part of me wonders if this is a part of the same growth and reflection I’ve been coming to about myself. And it likely ties together.

Last time I talked about the fear of rejection, of being hurt by people and how I created unrealistic ideals of a partner. And it steams into the same wavelength as the depression and inability to fix it and find a cure for myself. It connects, because I worry that in being damaged, I will put to much pressure on other people to help me. That they will worry about me and how that isn’t fair to them. I worry they will think I am looking for a savior and that I am just looking for attention. I worry that by being depressed, my brain will never truly let me have the connections I seek. Because there will always be a part of me that things I have to hid this, deal with it myself. I will always think I have to save someone from myself. As if I am not worthy of love, as if no one could ever love me enough.

I did this with my parents, so they only need to have one child to worry about. I did this with my friends, so that I was always the light one and the one they could come to help. I did this to the teachers that worried about me. And I wish I hadn’t. I know I cannot change it. But I do wonder what it would have been like if I had screamed. If I had let myself have a panic attack and let someone else come and help me. If I would have actually asked for help and accepted it. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel like I have to take on the world alone.

And yet…. Changing it would change so much about me now. Things I wouldn’t change. Even the depression. I suppose I like that it gives me a different perspective. That I have become strong and resilient. And despite it all I am happy.

But when I have my bad days. That perhaps I do not need a band aid. Perhaps by allowing it in, and to exist I’ve come to know myself more.

And besides… I like sad music.