…I’m not really sure how to start this. I’m not really sure if it’ll do much for me, to keep this log of it, but… Well, last time I went through a low point, I stopped writing altogether, and now that few months is just a blank in my memory. It’s unsettling. I don’t want this time to be erased like that if and when I feel better.
So, the basics.
I’ve been diagnosed with depression and anxiety. I’m on prozac and welbutrin, and they haven’t taken effect yet, so I’m still in the thick of things. Plus, about ten days after I started them (almost two months ago) my life began to systematically fall apart, and that certainly made everything worse.
As I learn more about depression and about my own triggers, I realize more and more that I’ve sort of always had it, to a certain degree. Things I took for granted, things I thought were just “how things are” were actually symptoms. Like, when I was a toddler and too young to talk, I would feel this intense, horrible sadness. This reaching need to be close to someone, but nobody ever filled the space. It was utter grief and loneliness, and I was so afraid, and I would try to communicate it to my mother, but I couldn’t talk yet. All I could do was cry. Eventually I would become so frustrated with myself that I would hit my head against the wall until she stopped me. She thought it was a toddler seeking attention. It was actually me just being so upset that I punished myself for being unable to do anything about it.
And as I grew older, I thought the fights I had with her about getting up and doing chores were normal. I thought everyone had that much trouble just doing simple things like the dishes, or getting up off the couch, or remembering to eat on a regular basis throughout the day. I thought I just sucked at that stuff. It never occurred to me that my inability to motivate myself might not be my fault.
I should establish now that I am not, nor have I ever been, suicidal. And I’m really glad about that. I can’t imagine having to fight off those kinds of thoughts on top of everything else. I admire the people who do it every day. I do have depression, but I’ve never lost the will to live, just the will to enjoy living. It’s terrifying in a completely different way.
Also, I’m a lesbian, and… Although that may have made my life a little harder in certain ways, I really don’t think it has much to do with my depression and anxiety. My problem isn’t who I love, it’s how, and how much.
I really don’t know how this blog is going to pan out. I don’t know how not to sound self pitying. I don’t know how to be honest and keep a record of what this is like. I just think that somebody needs to. That I need a glimpse into who I am during these times, because when I emerge from my depression, it’s like a big blur that I wish I’d had the presence of mind to document. So this time I’m documenting. On this blog I’ll try not to be harsh, or hopeless, or romanticize the illness. I’ll try to keep my sarcasm from becoming self mocking. I’ll try to faithfully record how I feel and why and what has changed, but… I just don’t know how it’s gonna go.
Anyhow, thanks for reading, if you did.