There were times last October (2014) I couldn't move. I would lift my head off my pillow and it would immediately fall back down. I couldn't hold my phone. It fell from my hands when I tried to pick it up. I had no strength. I processed sounds slowly. My mouth wouldn't open to form words. My eyes were heavy, everything had turned a shade of gray. I had to remind myself to breathe. My breathing at times would stop, for reasons I'm not entirely sure of. But suddenly I would realize my chest hurt and that was because I wasn't breathing. For days I didn't get out of bed. I didn't care about a thing; I couldn't care. The fighting will to live was quickly disappearing. The world simply ceased to exist. And I wanted to cease to exist. In those terrible hours and days, I finally understood what it meant to "be depressed".
Depression is icky. It's terrible, awful, torture; it's hell. It's mean and nasty and heartless. It's no respecter of time or space. It's a black, empty hole that follows you around and engulfs when you aren't ready. It doesn't care. It's difficult, suffocating, paralyzing, and life taking. And so very often, too often, it's silent. It is so dangerous. Depression is not being sad, it's not crying, not hiding away. Though these things can happen with depression. Depression is an illness that has the immense capability to capture and change your very mind, your being, your heart. It doesn't just leave you sick, it leaves you desolate. It is an illness of the mind, the body; and an illness of the heart. And yes, that is so, so sad.
But it isn't who you are. It isn't who I am. I am not depression. I have depression. And it sucks. I hate it. But I've learned to live with and around it. It is not a choice. It's the hardest thing I've ever, ever done. And still do. And will continue to do for the rest of my life. I have fought SO hard to be where I am today. And I am proud of that.
Because even in the midst of agony, life can be beautiful still.
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