Depression stole (and is still stealing) the best years of my life from me. It feels like Depression is the cloaked figure always on my peripheral vision that I try so hard to avoid as I push on through daily life tasks. He’s there (and, yes, my depression is a looming male figure) through all of my greatest accomplishments and disappointments. He doesn’t quite disappear, but some times he wraps his arms around me suffocating my every thought.
When I talk about Depression stealing my life from me, I’m not saying it in a way that means I won’t look back at what I’m doing and not be fond of it or enjoy it. I just mean that there will never be a memory in which I won’t be able to distinctly remember the eerie chill of Depression breathing down my neck.
Suffering from manic depression, in particular, means I’m switching through highs and lows more frequently than others and those highs and lows tend to be extensively more drastic. The best explanation I’ve seen is that it’s like living life on a pendulum swing and when you’re high you can’t see the bottom, but when you’re low you never feel like you can reach the top again.
It’s terrifying.
Rising up from a depression spell is a feeling so difficult to describe. Recently, I’ve realized that I spend a good chunk of my life ripping myself out of Depression’s grasp and kicking him back to my peripheral. I don’t like doing it.
You’d think ridding yourself of Depression would feel empowering, but it’s taxing. When I say I have to claw my way out of Depression’s arms, it's more like I’m making a plea deal and bargain my way out. I feel like I’m selling part of my soul away for just a few more months of sanity, a couple of seconds of living in the light be promising Depression that he can come back and take a hold of me.
What does this look like outside of my extended metaphor, though?
It starts when I’m in rock bottom, barely hanging on. It starts there because if I never hit it then I’ll never recover. There’s always a point in my mind where it becomes too much. That level varies, but the sentiment is that I hit ground that I can bounce back from.
Picking up the pieces of life is always the worst. When you’re depressed, energy isn’t a thing anymore. You’re doing the bare minimum to get by and sometimes not even that. It’s such a miracle I’m able to get to class some days that by the time I get back to my room, I don’t have the agency in myself to do anything else. Every task for survival begins to feel like a looming someday. It’s tomorrow’s problem, but when tomorrow turns to next week you’re suddenly left with a never-ending checklist.
But when you start to come to the surface, you start to notice just how out of hand so many things have gotten. My laundry hasn’t been done in over a month and I can blame it on how busy I have been or I can admit it’s because I’m too depressed.
It sometimes feels like that’s a cop-out, too. Oh, I’m too depressed to wash my dishes.
And that sort of mentality is what brings the guilt in. As I’m piecing back-together my life, I just begin to feel so guilty. I feel bad for not having written in so long. I feel sick to my stomach thinking about my friends that I seem to have abandoned. (Honestly, though, it’s not like they bothered to check on me, either.)
Little tasks seem like big ones. I just want to string my fairy lights in my room, but that requires so much energy.
So, I start breaking things down in my head like one of my therapists told me to do. I organize my vinyl. It’s probably the least pressing thing that needs to be done, but at least it’s something easy. Plus, seeing the titles of albums that I love helps to shake me back to reality a bit.
I organize my make up. Again, not really that important in comparison to the pile of clothes on my floor, but its something that I enjoy enough.
One day, soon, I’ll begin to mend some of my friendships, too. That process won’t be easy. As much as I push people away when I’m depressed, I do need to thank Depression a bit. Depression often opens my eyes up to who isn’t doing their part in my relationships.
When I start to get bad, it’s really easy to see who actually cares about me. I’ll have friends who fall off the radar. They’ll use the same excuse of being busy, but, honestly, I’m one of the busiest people I know.
Tip: When a friend admits that they haven’t been reaching out because they are too depressed to do so, take a little bit of time out of your schedule to check up on them periodically. (Of course, if you’re also mentally struggling, take time for yourself first, but c’mon there’s statistically no way every one of my friends was crumbling the way I was.)
As I come back up for air, I have to talk to those friends who had watched me drown, refusing to do anything to save me. I have to decide if I’m going to let them get away with it. Personally, I tend to tell them the truth: I can see them through the saltwater, above the surface. I see myself falling and I can feel myself flailing for help. I may be depressed, but I’m not blind. I can tell when friends aren’t willing to help me. I let them know that their indifference to me is what sank me down lower, like a chain cuffed to my ankle and attached to a weighted anchor. Usually, I give them another chance. After all, I can’t expect them to help me through my depression spells when I don’t even know how to help myself: doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
Those relationships take mending and mending. It feels like I’m always mending them. That’s so hard, too, when you live your life on the teetering edge of a possible relapse.
When I’m recovering from a depression spell, more of my energy goes toward thinking about tasks that I need to do than actually doing the tasks. During the duration of writing this post, I’ve spent more time looking at my laundry than writing, but it’s still not done.
I’m on my way back up, so I’ll do it soon.
The worst part of working your way out of a depression spell, though, is the fear in your stomach. I can feel myself jittering whenever I get too much time alone because my mind wanders into a terrifying place. On my way back up to the surface, I have this fear of getting hit with a wave again. Nothing is scarier than relapse.
In fact, I’d even say that for me relapse is scarier than rock bottom. At least at rock bottom, I know where I stand. During relapse, there’s a feeling of uncertainty and self-hatred that I can’t feel anywhere else. When I’m spiraling back up, though, I know that there will come a time that I will fall back down. It’s not something that I can completely control, unfortunately. I wish there was a way to shut off this cycle, but even therapy and medication can only minimize it.
Recovery is terrifying in the same way relapse is. The higher I rise, the harder I can fall back down. Sometimes, I think, it may just be easier to live in rock bottom.
Sometimes, I think, is recovery even worth it?
Nonetheless, I keep mending myself. Nonetheless, one day I will have the answers.
Today, every task seems too hard. It’s likely that the same can be said about tomorrow, but Depression and I are having a chat and eventually, we’ll reach an agreement. He’ll give me the time to heal and in return, he can stick around on this crazy journey with me.
And maybe it won’t be so bad.
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