My trip is coming to a close — for now — and my depression is creeping back up on me, the longer I stay in one place. I’ve been lying on the couch, exhausted and wide-eyed, trying to shut off these horrible conversations in my head with my friends and family that have never actually fucking transpired, even a little.
The shit about depression is you’re afraid to get better because you know you’ll never be fixed. And you may know, objectively, that that’s more or less okay — that depression is a chronic disease, you know there’s no round of penicillin that’ll fix it. But every time you’re happy, even as you’re happy, there’s a twinge in your stomach because you know the bell will toll. Every time you tell someone, “Yeah, I feel great lately, I’m doing really good!” and you’re being totally honest, and you are happy, you feel a little sick inside, because you know that sick is still in you.
The moment you begin to get better you are usually preemptively disappointing your loved ones, and that’s difficult to reconcile. They’re so hopeful, that maybe you’re really okay, and as you chatter about all the things you’ve been doing a pit sinks into your stomach.
[note: I know many people who have found successful, long-term treatment of chronic depression. this is not to say their battle has been any less than mine, nor that the battle is indomitable; it is just 5:44 in the morning, and I am only talking about myself.]
I start to weigh my conversations on a fucked up little scale. If I sound too happy, will they dismiss my relentless misery? If I suddenly sound sad again, am I just seeking attention? Have had I had enough happiness to sustain me? Is this what I deserve?
The more familiar I feel with a city lonelier I am. This is pretty obviously why I never stay in any one place for very long. I’m terrified of getting stuck again. I tried to kill myself, once, halfheartedly, and my father found me; I tattooed a TS Eliot poem under the embarrassing scar. We recite it sometimes, when we’re drunk.
There’s no fucking point to this blog entry, but people occasionally tell me that I am articulate, and if there’s one thing I’d like to artciulate it’s mental illness. To this day idiots chuck my chin and inform me how happy I am, and it’s a good thing I’m weak and useless or I might punch them in the trachea.