I Don't Have Depression
TW: This blog contains serious mentions of depression, self-harm, and suicide. Please do not continue reading if you think any of these topics may make you uncomfortable.
“I’m giving you one last chance. I pray that I will not wake up tomorrow morning. That you will be kind enough to do what I am too weak to. Please prove to me that there is something more. I’m begging that you will let me go quickly because I really can’t do this anymore.”
That’s a direct quote from my journal on June 15, 2015. I was 14 years old, only just starting high school. Before my life had even really begun, I was sitting in my room praying that there was a God who could end it.
I’m 19 now. My mental health has gone through wild twists and turns over the last five years, but throughout this journey, I have prayed for this very thing more times than I can count. Still, one invasive thought has persisted above all the others. I don’t have depression though… I can’t have depression….
Even with everything I was going through, I managed to convince myself—helped along by harmful media representation—that depression was something to be ashamed of. Even as I began my recovery in other aspects of my life and became more vocal about my eating disorder, anxiety, and OCD, I continued to deny that I had depression. For so long, I lied to psychiatrists, therapists, my family, my friends, and most importantly: to myself.
I told myself that I hadn’t self-harmed because the scars didn’t last; I told myself, as I lay in bed, too numb to move, that I wasn’t sad enough to be depressed; I told myself, more times than I can count, to paste a smile on while tears ran down my cheeks. No matter what I was facing, I kept it all inside. Externally, or perhaps superficially, I didn’t fit the “typical mold” of depression, the version of depression that society—and myself—had told me was the only version there was. I went to a normal school every day, earned high grades like every normal straight A student, and hung out with my friends like every normal teenager. Normal, normal, normal. I led a completely normal life, so how could I have depression? In my mind, the answer was simple: I couldn’t.
But I was wrong. This past year, I’ve taken it upon myself to actively face the depression I can now clearly see I have, and I’ve realized just how much unlearning I have to do. Of course my struggles are valid. Of course I deserve to get the help I need. Of course there is no shame in depression. And through this journey of tackling my demons head-on, I have learned that the only way to honestly accept yourself and your experiences is to be true to them. Mental illness thrives in secrecy and lies, but it doesn’t have to be this way.
Speaking about my depression is something I never thought that I would do. But now, and over the past year, I have claimed ownership of my story. I will no longer let a ridiculous notion of what depression is “supposed to look like” hold me back from being true to myself. And I will not give my depression the power to hold its stigma over me.
Today, I am choosing to be vulnerable. I am choosing to share my experience in the hopes that it will encourage someone else to come out with theirs. Whether it’s to your dog, your best friend, to social media, or even to yourself—I call upon you to reclaim your story however is most authentic to you. Speak up. Break down your shame. Empower yourself. Because although we can’t change our mental illnesses, or those of those around us, there’s one thing all of us can and must do: talk about it.
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