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What depression feels like
Posted by lucyd
12th Nov 2015

The more time passes, the more I wonder how much longer I can keep listening to the one per cent of me that must, for some reason, want to stay alive, rather than the 99 per cent that is constantly telling me to die.

It was the one per cent that made me hand over 60-odd pills to my husband at midnight last night.

I donít know why that one per cent is the stronger part at the moment. I know I should be glad that thereís this little bit of me Ė presumably the old me, the me thatís easy-going and loving and loyal, a good wife, mother and friend, creative and hardworking Ė that wants to hang on, and that itís shouting louder than the exhausted me, the numb me, the dead me. But I just wish it would shut up because then it would be so much easier just to do what seems inevitable.

I hate what depression has made me. I hate the unrelenting sadness. I hate sitting up in bed at 2am, so so tired but wide awake with my mind doing somersaults. I hate the sluggishness, I hate being fat and too damned exhausted to do anything about it. I hate that even cooking pasta is exhausting. I hate the paranoia, not knowing whether my friends are really my friends or whether they are all just tolerating me out of a sense of duty because they are nice people. I hate feeling so dependent on people and so I try to push them away because I know I wouldnít want to be my friend either.

I feel completely lost, so lonely. I canít even read a book, and who am I if I canít read?

Apparently Iím churning out brilliant copy for work but it doesnít give me any sense of satisfaction to get that feedback. The only good thing about it is that it keeps my stupid obsessive brain focused elsewhere for a few hours a day.

I donít feel in control of myself. It feels like I have been fighting so hard against this illness and I donít know how much fight I have left. Everyone says keep going, keep trying to call your CPN, keep chasing up your appointments but it all takes energy that I donít have.

Instead Iím just sitting here, feeling like a passenger, watching as depression slowly destroys everything I have Ė my marriage, my friendships, my work, my childrenís lives. I watch my daughter skipping everywhere, I listen to my son wittering on about Minecraft, and all I can think is Iím ruining their lives. Their adult memories of this time of their lives are going to be of living with a shell, this empty body who couldnít do anything with them or for them. They seem happy now but whether through nature or nurture, every day they spend with me is setting them up for a lifetime of bitterness and regret and probably mental illness of their own. The thought that one day, one or both of them will feel like I do now is just too much to bear.

I am too much. For all that I feel as if Iím disappearing into myself I know Iím too much for everyone else. The mess that I am, the insecurity, the neediness, itís all too much. I need to pull myself in, keep my mouth shut stop boring everybody senseless with my own misery.

Other people live with this illness and function. They function so well that from the outside, no one would know of whatís going on inside. Why canít I be strong enough to do that?

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