The Winter of Our Discontent

May 31, 2017

My depression is never pretty or cute, or a nicely packaged cinematic masterpiece where I find the purpose of my life when it (thankfully, in my case) recedes into the back corners of my mind for an extended period of time. No, my depression is hiding away from the world so that I don't inflict myself on the people I care about. It's ugly crying and snot everywhere when the damn finally bursts in a devastating destruction of binge eating, drinking, and smoking. It's misplaced anger and yelling at whomever happens to set me off. It's aching, stomach gnawing sadness and loneliness that causes me to make heartfelt confessions I later regret. It's not wanting to be around most people because, even if I adore them, the interaction feels like sandpaper grating against my bare psyche. It's being stuck in what feels like an inescapable, pitch black, oubliette where I cannot reach out to the one or two people whose company is enough to give me a few hours of peace.

You know what my depression isn't? Something to be ashamed of.

In the United States it has become near impossible for the majority of the citizens to obtain the help they need in order to cope with their mental illnesses. Unless you have amazing health insurance or a fuckton of money, you're basically fucked as far as therapy and prescription drugs. Then, to add insult to injury, there is still such a stigma attached to mental illness. A stigma that can go fuck itself with a rusty tire iron. Having a mental illness does not make you weak. It does not make you unworthy. It does not make you any less of an amazing human being who deserves happiness and affordable health care.

You know what does not help in the least little bit? Being told to 'get over it'. Oh, geeze, really? Get over it? Just like that? Hummm. Why didn't I think about that brilliant, and obvious plan? BECAUSE IT IS IMPOSSIBLE, YOU GODDAMN FUCKING UNHELPFUL DUMBASS. To put it in terms that you might understand would be something like, if someone comes along, shoots you in the stomach, and I tell you to walk it the fuck off instead of helping you get the medical attention you need. You can't just 'get over it', you can't just 'get out and enjoy life' me, if that were possible, every single goddamn person who suffers from a mental illness would choose THAT path. We don't enjoy having to battle our own minds on a constant/near constant basis. We have medication and therapy for a fucking reason. When we can't afford to get the help we need, we suffer and we do the best we can to make it through the fucking day. Your judgement, your misguided words of 'wisdom', they only make things harder.

I have mild depression, social anxiety, and C-PTSD. I'm not ashamed. I do the best I can, and sometimes I break. I make no apologies for that...and I'm here for anyone else who needs to fall apart.

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