This post is a generalized one. It is fair for all to have an opinion about it, although, it would help if they were not conveyed, except if they empowering or optimistic. otherwise, they might defeat the purpose of the post itself.
Tread with caution.
Yeah, I am depressed. And I am not ashamed!
It’s not as easy as it’s coming out while I’m typing away. It’s not nearly as bad as you feel, out of sympathy, empathy or whatever. It’s just so much worse. It seems easy to tell a person that I am not doing well. It seems easy to “talk it out”. After a point of time, talking stops working. It doesn’t help anymore, especially when you are hoping for that one particular person to understand this whole trauma. Talking to other people just makes no sense, and triggers irritability instead.
Anxiety as a borderline is to me the storm inside. It is lumpy throats, butterflies in the otherwise empty stomach, sweaty palms, lost focus, jumpiness, longing for something unknown.
It is like you’re waiting. But you have no idea for what. It is like you want something (you don’t know what) that you know you’re not going to lay your hands on. That’s always been anxiety for me. Now I know why it’s so different than the normal anxiety.
Talking to people, smiling, laughing, going about my day was never a problem. Going out and having fun, I can do all that. I love doing all that. The problem is when I return home, the day is done. That is when the smallest thing on the planet can tick me off. Even after the happiest day, I might get depressed.
And that’s where we start talking about depression as a borderline.
First things first, when you tell me in the most confident or the most saintly manner that I have nothing to be depressed about, because I have a family, friends, money, and all the materialistic things you can imagine, you are clearly not including the unrequited emotions, the ignored pain deep in my chest, the shudders, the chills down my spine. You aren’t thinking about all those nights I spent tearing up, stuffing my mouth in the pillow to stifle my sobs, the wrinkled eyes from all the crying, and the swollen lips from all the biting to kill screams. Too dramatic, huh? When you question my trauma, it is an emotional invalidation, which in turn is a big stigma that kills borderlines. Like literally.
That’s depression for me. That’s when I can’t help thinking, over thinking. It is a desperate, vain fight with my own head. I keep scolding it, torturing it in ways that it would stop. It is as stubborn as me.
I feel guilty manipulating myself to feel happy.
I feel guilty trying to tell someone how I feel, what I’m going through because it seems like I’m bothering them more than they want to be.
I am scared when I’m happy because I know it’s going to go away, only because my stupid brains won’t stop thinking. So don’t tell me to “not think so much”.
But I’m still trying. Fighting with everything.
And this doesn’t mean I’m not happy. There are times; I’m not bothered, and completely fine. Perfectly normal. But subconsciously I know, I can snap anytime.
I’m prepared. Though, some understanding here, and some distracting me there would do great wonders.
Thanks to all who listen to me when I need to talk, and make me laugh when I’m not even feeling like smiling, those who SHOW they care!
I wrote the above article before something very bad happened. And then when everything was falling into place, my anxiety decided to show up and mess my life. It wrecked my living. Every second of it. I lost the will to get up from the bed. I thought I was getting better, but my anxiety never gets better. It kills me every day. And people don’t care.
Everything I believed, everything I trusted, everything I hoped for, everything; just fell apart!
In one second, a few words, I was dead that moment. I didn’t breathe, my heart stopped, everything stopped. A noise distracted me from my reverie and I smiled because I couldn’t cry. The tears that I held back were hurting my eyes, my head was throbbing.
I knew it was my mistake. I knew I had committed a crime so big, nothing would ever be enough to wash it away. But I still hoped because that’s how I was alive today. Hopes kept me going. What would I do now, that all the hopes were gone? How would I cope with myself, my brain, my emotion?
Everyone showed in their own little ways that they cared, but nothing made sense. They were all lying. Nobody cared. The problem with our society is they wouldn’t know how bad they harm you until a suicide is committed. Maybe that is why people commit suicide, not because they are sad, but to show people that “the things you do, the words you say are fatal”.
I knew, always knew that I wouldn’t kill myself. As I have spoken to all my friends, to those I thought I could trust. I told them, that you need not worry about my suicidal thoughts; I believe in myself, that I won’t do such a thing. What they failed to understand from these words was, I was having suicidal thoughts, and something was bothering me. Something is always going to keep bothering me. they are scared, I know they are.
Sometimes it feels like there’s no cure for this craziness, there’s no going out of this vicious downward spiral. It feels like the whole world is going to remain blue until finally, I die a natural death because I didn’t want to seem too weak.
The truth is, if I’m not killing myself, it doesn’t mean I’m strong. It means I die every day. And that’s how it feels being anxious. That is how tiring it is to be depressed, just as tiring as it is to read this all. It is worse to feel it. I have read, and written over and over again, but I feel, just like love and other great feelings, this craziness is something that can only be felt. This pain can never be described in enough words. Those who are hurting, will alas, be the only ones who will know.
I recently also realized that the understanding toward the billions of people like me, maybe everyone, in their own beautiful, varied way, is so underwhelmed. We are all intolerant, ignorant and selfish toward these people, who go through a myriad of such emotions, problems every day. That, being the biggest stigma. That, in some or the other way, is a reason for the endless suicides.
Let’s all try and understand our loved ones better, and maybe save a life.
Let’s be selfless, and learn to give more than we take.