There's a Vacuum Where My Heart Used To Be
"You know deep down that what your life has become is your fault, and you could fix it if you just worked a little harder. You work a little harder and it still isn't good enough."
I work for a rockstar. I live in a cool Brooklyn loft with a beautiful girl. I travel to exciting places and go to cool parties. I have piercings and tattoos and pink hair. I've become the sort of girl I'd glance at sideways on the train, full of envy.
And I hate myself. Really, truly abhor almost everything about me. There is a constant barrage in my inner ear telling me that every word out of my mouth is stupid. That voice tells me I am ruining everything. Sometimes it's an insidious whisper that I can drown out if I smile big enough. Other times, it screams.
It says that I'm a failure. I fail at keeping up with work, I fail at keeping my bedroom clean, I fail at living up to my potential.
I have been watching my life disintegrate for months, while I stand on the sidelines and drown in apathy. Coherent thought is a constant struggle. I can't cry. I rarely laugh.
The only clear emotion I feel is anger. I am angry at everyone and everything. I am angry at my parents for lying when they told me I was special, I am angry at my boss for taking me for granted, I am angry at my girlfriend for blogging about us breaking up when we haven't even broken up yet, I am angry at my roommate for passive-aggressively cleaning up after me, I am angry at my friends for having husbands and houses and real grown up lives, I am angry at the entire globe but mostly I am angry at myself for being so out of control.
Out of control for me happens quietly. The worse my brain gets, the more I withdraw. Numbness is a coping mechanism when my brain chemistry starts behaving like a seventh grade science project. Then the people around me start to look upset. I know I should try to fix it but by now I am in survival mode, and to survive until I get my sea legs again, I must feel nothing.
In the middle of all of this, I end up in a booth at a diner with two new friends, an old one, and a psychology student. Mental health comes up, in that way that it does when a bunch of artists get together, and suddenly everyone at the table except for me is agreeing that medication is over-prescribed. My old friend derides that sort of thing as taking the easy way out. He says it's a quick fix when instead people should be in therapy and working to feel better. The rest of the table seems to agree (although one person is quiet and I suspect this conversation has hit close for them too).
I fought my natural reaction, which was to scream, "WHY THANK YOU FOR EXPLAINING THAT, I HAD NO IDEA IT WAS THAT EASY." Here I've been fighting myself for years when in actuality I should have just talked to someone and tried harder to be not-depressed.
People who have never been depressed can not understand how complicated "get therapy and feel better" actually is. First you have to find a therapist. Maybe you look online; there are so many options you get overwhelmed and you shut down. Maybe you ask friends, and you get a few names that way. You pull yourself together enough to make an appointment knowing that there's a 50/50 chance you won't go. And you don't go, because either you've convinced yourself that you're doing better or you're so depressed that talking to a stranger about it for a fifty minute hour is unbearable.
Or you go. I went, earlier this year. I answered basic questions for a woman who, at the end of our session, told me that because I could communicate so articulately I couldn't possibly be THAT depressed. She said to come back in two months; I told her that if I waited two months I wouldn't come back. She said she was sure I could do it if I set my mind to it.
I did not go back. I do not want to tell another stranger all about my family history of mental illness. I do not want to pay money I already panic about not having to hate myself under the guidance of a professional. I do not want to sit across from a well-dressed, well-educated individual and recount the list of grievances I have against my own mind. I am tired, I have no sex drive, I cannot concentrate, I cannot create, I am ruining the lives of everyone who loves me.
I tried to fix my life myself. I thought if I could start making art again, I could beat this wave. If I move toward my dreams, surely I'll FEEL BETTER, right? I started taking meetings, going out, making friends with other artists. I tried to show the world the light I wanted to feel.
It doesn't fix anything. I am still drowning in slow motion. I am still numb.
I play video games. I pick at the weak points on my skin until they hurt.
It gets worse. I cannot sleep. I feel nauseous more often than I do not. My girlfriend sobs and I look at her like she's a stranger. The cords that connect me to my humanity are frayed and straining. I cannot fix myself, because this cannot be fixed. It seems obvious in my lucid moments that life is suffering for fucking everyone but sometimes it's less and I should just sit here and wait for misery to become complacency to hopefully become contentment.
Depression is tunnel vision. When I am depressed, I cannot remember the better times. They start to seem like an old analog picture taken with a toy camera, dark edges and blurry aberrations obscuring the image. It's like looking at someone else's snapshots; I feign polite interest but I do not recognize the girl in those memories. Life has always been misery and it always will be misery and anyone who doesn't think so is either an idiot or drowning in their own privilege. My gut tells me I have always felt this way, although my head knows that sooner or later I will swing back in the other direction.
Depression is not like the flu. The flu has an expected duration. The flu does not trick you into thinking you're better, only to hit you again weeks or months later without warning. The flu plays fair.
Depression is like the kid from your kindergarden class who told you there was a monster in the bathroom that would eat you if you went in there and then made fun of you because you wet your pants. It gets under your skin and hurts years later. It eats at you, whispering in your ear that you're a loser and you'll always be a loser.
Even as I write this the voice is telling me I'm just a drama queen, and if I tried harder I wouldn't be ruining my relationship with my fucked up feelings, and that I could be better if I wanted to. I'm lazy, I'm a liar, I'm a loser who can't even keep herself healthy, I am a fake of epic proportions, I am a bad artist and a worse human being and I cannot be depended upon for anything.
I am depressed.
Love,
Beth
I work for a rockstar. I live in a cool Brooklyn loft with a beautiful girl. I travel to exciting places and go to cool parties. I have piercings and tattoos and pink hair. I've become the sort of girl I'd glance at sideways on the train, full of envy.
And I hate myself. Really, truly abhor almost everything about me. There is a constant barrage in my inner ear telling me that every word out of my mouth is stupid. That voice tells me I am ruining everything. Sometimes it's an insidious whisper that I can drown out if I smile big enough. Other times, it screams.
It says that I'm a failure. I fail at keeping up with work, I fail at keeping my bedroom clean, I fail at living up to my potential.
I have been watching my life disintegrate for months, while I stand on the sidelines and drown in apathy. Coherent thought is a constant struggle. I can't cry. I rarely laugh.
The only clear emotion I feel is anger. I am angry at everyone and everything. I am angry at my parents for lying when they told me I was special, I am angry at my boss for taking me for granted, I am angry at my girlfriend for blogging about us breaking up when we haven't even broken up yet, I am angry at my roommate for passive-aggressively cleaning up after me, I am angry at my friends for having husbands and houses and real grown up lives, I am angry at the entire globe but mostly I am angry at myself for being so out of control.
Out of control for me happens quietly. The worse my brain gets, the more I withdraw. Numbness is a coping mechanism when my brain chemistry starts behaving like a seventh grade science project. Then the people around me start to look upset. I know I should try to fix it but by now I am in survival mode, and to survive until I get my sea legs again, I must feel nothing.
In the middle of all of this, I end up in a booth at a diner with two new friends, an old one, and a psychology student. Mental health comes up, in that way that it does when a bunch of artists get together, and suddenly everyone at the table except for me is agreeing that medication is over-prescribed. My old friend derides that sort of thing as taking the easy way out. He says it's a quick fix when instead people should be in therapy and working to feel better. The rest of the table seems to agree (although one person is quiet and I suspect this conversation has hit close for them too).
I fought my natural reaction, which was to scream, "WHY THANK YOU FOR EXPLAINING THAT, I HAD NO IDEA IT WAS THAT EASY." Here I've been fighting myself for years when in actuality I should have just talked to someone and tried harder to be not-depressed.
People who have never been depressed can not understand how complicated "get therapy and feel better" actually is. First you have to find a therapist. Maybe you look online; there are so many options you get overwhelmed and you shut down. Maybe you ask friends, and you get a few names that way. You pull yourself together enough to make an appointment knowing that there's a 50/50 chance you won't go. And you don't go, because either you've convinced yourself that you're doing better or you're so depressed that talking to a stranger about it for a fifty minute hour is unbearable.
Or you go. I went, earlier this year. I answered basic questions for a woman who, at the end of our session, told me that because I could communicate so articulately I couldn't possibly be THAT depressed. She said to come back in two months; I told her that if I waited two months I wouldn't come back. She said she was sure I could do it if I set my mind to it.
I did not go back. I do not want to tell another stranger all about my family history of mental illness. I do not want to pay money I already panic about not having to hate myself under the guidance of a professional. I do not want to sit across from a well-dressed, well-educated individual and recount the list of grievances I have against my own mind. I am tired, I have no sex drive, I cannot concentrate, I cannot create, I am ruining the lives of everyone who loves me.
I tried to fix my life myself. I thought if I could start making art again, I could beat this wave. If I move toward my dreams, surely I'll FEEL BETTER, right? I started taking meetings, going out, making friends with other artists. I tried to show the world the light I wanted to feel.
It doesn't fix anything. I am still drowning in slow motion. I am still numb.
I play video games. I pick at the weak points on my skin until they hurt.
It gets worse. I cannot sleep. I feel nauseous more often than I do not. My girlfriend sobs and I look at her like she's a stranger. The cords that connect me to my humanity are frayed and straining. I cannot fix myself, because this cannot be fixed. It seems obvious in my lucid moments that life is suffering for fucking everyone but sometimes it's less and I should just sit here and wait for misery to become complacency to hopefully become contentment.
Depression is tunnel vision. When I am depressed, I cannot remember the better times. They start to seem like an old analog picture taken with a toy camera, dark edges and blurry aberrations obscuring the image. It's like looking at someone else's snapshots; I feign polite interest but I do not recognize the girl in those memories. Life has always been misery and it always will be misery and anyone who doesn't think so is either an idiot or drowning in their own privilege. My gut tells me I have always felt this way, although my head knows that sooner or later I will swing back in the other direction.
Depression is not like the flu. The flu has an expected duration. The flu does not trick you into thinking you're better, only to hit you again weeks or months later without warning. The flu plays fair.
Depression is like the kid from your kindergarden class who told you there was a monster in the bathroom that would eat you if you went in there and then made fun of you because you wet your pants. It gets under your skin and hurts years later. It eats at you, whispering in your ear that you're a loser and you'll always be a loser.
Even as I write this the voice is telling me I'm just a drama queen, and if I tried harder I wouldn't be ruining my relationship with my fucked up feelings, and that I could be better if I wanted to. I'm lazy, I'm a liar, I'm a loser who can't even keep herself healthy, I am a fake of epic proportions, I am a bad artist and a worse human being and I cannot be depended upon for anything.
I am depressed.
Love,
Beth