I’m not here to talk about how pretty and lovely it is to have depression. It isn’t. Unless I’ve slipped through to an alternate universe and lovely means horrible, then depression is not lovely. It is not pretty.
Depression is ugly and disgusting.
It’s a floor covered in mess – clothes, rubbish, food, dishes, anything and everything. You can’t find the energy to pick up the clothes and put them back in the drawers. The rubbish lays wayside as you trample through it. And the smell…the food is rotting and the dishes are unwashable because you’ve left it all there too long.
Some days you call in sick to work with a stomach bug or the flu because your boss doesn’t take “depression” as a reason for not making it in to work. But your legs don’t work and you couldn’t make it to your favorite place even if you wanted to.
Other days you can’t speak because it’s too much to make your mouth form the words. You get yelled at for ignoring the questions, but you’ve answered them all in your head. You have. But the words won’t move past being fleeting ideas in your mind. You couldn’t give an answer even if you tried.
You could sleep for days at a time. Sometimes you do. And all the responsibilities you hold go untouched because you’re sound asleep. “Stop being so lazy!!” Because it’s impossible to explain that it’s just so exhausting to be existing. You can’t explain that although you haven’t left your house, just getting out of bed and making breakfast was a marathon effort. You need a rest and you didn’t accomplish anything. So you’re called lazy because it’s easier to do than try understand.
You get called lazy, ungrateful, useless – every horrible adjective under the sun. You can’t be depressed, you’ve got everything anyone could ever want. But hearing these things only makes it worse. You know you’re lucky. You know you’ve got it good. Yet your legs won’t work and your brain won’t function. And you begin the constant struggle to remind yourself depression doesn’t discriminate. It never works.
Depression isn’t pretty and dainty. It’s not a romanticized poem read by a 16 year old school girl. Depression is and always will be the horrible black cloud looming above my head. I’m constantly waiting for it to rendered me nil and take me out. Make me a horrible member to society. And I’ve spent 6 years telling myself that it wasn’t okay. That I had to be able to accomplish great things and save the world. I forgot to tell myself that it was okay if my greatest accomplishment was that I took some dishes out today. I forgot to tell myself that it’s okay if the only saving I did was myself.
Depression isn’t pretty and lovely. And it’s okay to be living in your own filth. It doesn’t make you a bad person. Just take it moment by moment. Maybe take some rubbish out. Remove the rotting food. And it’s okay to get back into bed and rest your weary soul. You did enough for today.