You and Depression are Friends aren’t you?
I knew it.
I suppose it makes sense for you to attract such ghastly company. To be expected really. You and depression and anxiety gang up on me. And what else is to be expected but for you to bring along your friends.
Depression is your side-effect, your best and loyalist friend, she is fated to be beside you, as she is dark and worming like you, she creeps into the cracks you break open for her, you two are synchronized. She sees the fault lines your earthquake creates, and the way you break open my mind, to let her in.
It is to be expected, I don’t understand why doctors treat you two as different ails, why, as soon as they diagnose M.E they don’t throw us into therapy. Because when you live in your shadow as I do, it is hard not to feel small, and weak, and pathetic because of you. You are deflating, a pin in a balloon. You take my birth right of potential and you stamp on it.
I have seen ill people be great things. But they must have a secret I do not, right? a whispered lesson you forbid me to learn. How can I be great when I cannot move out of this house?
But maybe this path I am on, that I crawl upon because of you is leading me to something good, but you and your friend depression do you best to make me believe otherwise, you do your best to make me believe I am in a hole of your creation, a pit you won’t let me clamber out of.
And in my worst I have begged for you to end me. I have wished, in my pain that you were killing kind, and that is when your best friend starts to whisper.
But It is in the moments the pain isn’t as bad, that all is quiet but i still can’t move that she starts to get louder and louder and louder until she is screaming that it is my fault that you exist, that there is something wrong with me. That you are somehow a choice I made years ago, that you are not bad as i make you out to be, that i make you up, that things like this don’t happen to people like me, and you are just some kind of twisted fantasy.
Because, you know, that for a long time people called you a make believe disease, because they did not understand you, you do not understand you until you live with you. You have been called the lazy man’s disease. The stigma surrounding you is something that you use, you and your friend depression.
If you were a make believe creature, a figment of my imagination, I could destroy you by not believing in you. But that’s just not true. You are real. You are here. And you are something that has happened to me, not something that IS me. You may not kill, but you try your best, you and your friend depression.
But I try my best too, to live alongside you two.
To understand that I have a right to be sad sometimes because what you do to me, that of course I get depressed, I am 21 and i live under pile of blankets on the sofa, I can’t find independence from my parents because I couldn’t live without them. And without you I think I would have studied architecture. It sounds like a dream to be well enough to study that. coming out of school when i was twelve was the best possible thing for me, i do not, never have, regretted that, but I lost a lot of friends because of you, I lost the ability to find new friends, you isolated me, so of course I feel sad sometimes.
I have the right to that.
And that is how i deal with you and your best friend depression. I acknowledge you are real, that you are horrible, and your stigma means nothing, it is inconsequential, just a lie you made up to cover up your wake.
I admit this to myself, and I try, I try to be positive, because the moment i let that go, things fall apart for me. The moment I let your friend dig deeper then she is, you dig deeper too. My positivity is your enemy.
And she may not be as great as I want her to be, her existence belittled her by your persistence, but she is still the dagger I fight you off with. The one who gets me up in the morning when you have made my head thick, my legs shaky, and my will small. My positivity keeps me going.