Having friends is a pain in the ass, because they want to see you and do things. I haven’t been big on seeing people and doing things. I spent the bulk of the winter in hibernation. I went to work, took my dog to the dog park and locked myself up in my darkened room until it was time to get up and do it again.
Some of my friends gave up on me in the nicest possible way. They know that when I’m depressed, forcing me out of the house isn’t going to help. They’d check in every now and again to make sure I was alive, but they mostly left me alone.
When I’m depressed, I don’t want to leave the house, but sometimes, I wish my friends would try a little harder. Sometimes, I wish they would come over and pry me out, but we both know it wouldn’t do any good. I’d just hide deeper.
Coming out of a depressive spell isn’t easy. It’s gradual. Each day is slightly better than the one before, but there are always backslides. Some days are worse than others and when you think you’re out of it, you’re really not. The next day can be even worse and you go right back to hiding again.
Last night, Male and I went out with some very close friends neither one of us have seen for months. He, because he lives in another state. Me, because I’ve been hiding. They gave me bear hugs and said it’s good to see you out and where have you been? Some gave me a rash of shit. I’ve tried to get you out of the house. I gave up.
Depression is absolutely no fun. I thought that once I was medicated, I wouldn’t get like this anymore. Sadly, that’s not the case. All the SSRI does is allow me to cope a little better. I am able to rationally sort the depression from myself. I can see it as a distinct entity. Depression is not me. It is something inside of me that takes over sometimes, but it is not me.
The meds make it so that I don’t cry all the damn time for no reason, so that’s a bonus. Yet, instead of feeling too much, I mainly just feel numb. That’s because I don’t just have Major Depressive Disorder; I also have PTSD. The medication helps more with depression and anxiety. PTSD cannot be cured with meds. Depression can’t be cured with meds. I will always have both.
Depression will never go away. Occasionally, just that simple thought is enough to make me want to cash out. If I’m always going to have to live like this, what is the damn point? This is no kind of way to live.
I have great friends. I have fun with them. I laugh and can be entirely myself. I can be cantankerous and opinionated and I never have to censor myself. That’s really rare and I am damn lucky to have them. My friends know me. They know me better than I know myself sometimes. They remember things that I don’t.
Yet, my mental shackles make it so that I don’t want to be a part of anything. My diseased brain makes me feel like I don’t even deserve to have the kind of friends that I do. Rationally, I know how dumb that is, but mental illness is not even remotely rational. If it was, I could reason the hell out of it.
Having Male home has been great, but it’s also been sad. I know he will leave again in a few days and I will face the depression again on my own. My friends do the best they can. They try, which is really more that I can say I did this past winter. I didn’t try. I let it envelop me more than I should have.
I’m tired of being broken. I am tired of my mental illnesses, but I can see no way out. They will always be there. All I can do is try, because if I don’t, there really is no point at all.