my ongoing battle with depression
In July's deepening summer, I admitted the insidious trembling of my own heart, a throbbing pain I forced myself did not exist for the past two weeks or so. Something ached at the very core of me, something ancient, deep, persistent.
How many more weeks like this laid ahead of me? How many more weeks - quiet, lonely, dissociative?
What do I remember about the past few days? I am not sure: my mornings, a fog; the sun, a blinding white haze; long stretches of repetitive tasks; humming and chattering of people; my nights, aimless staring at my ceiling in despair. Vague snippets of minutes, colors, sounds, but I cannot collect a coherent memory for the life of me.
People, surroundings - none of it felt real. Around me but lightyears away from me. I try listening to music, but it's not going through me. I try to read, but words dance on the page in mockery. I was making progress, building a new life, so what happened? It must be the medication, I thought. It is no longer working.
I sought writing like crazy. I wrote in my journal, my planner, my blog. I jotted my fleeting thoughts on sticky notes, or wrote long letters on white paper, directed to no one in particular. The ballpoint pen I brought a week ago is already half-empty, the blister on my finger a sorrowful reminder of every word I have written. I delude myself that I feel inspired, but, really, my writing was a coping mechanism to hold intact the shards of my crumbling life.
I had a horrible thought yesterday - that maybe it wasn't my circumstances making me unhappy. Maybe I am someone who is incapable of being happy. I've been desperately trying to untangle the chaos in me, to find the root cause of my pain, but what if there were no roots in the first place? What if I spent the rest of my life, aimlessly searching? The realization struck an unbearable, needling sorrow that lurched my heart in an acheful stab of pain. Though the idea passed, the mere notion of it left a dull throb in me.
I contacted my psychiatrist out of panic. My medication is no longer working, I told him. What do I do? For a second, I told myself fuck the medication, I will fight this battle by my own. I already carried a cumbersome shame, stretching as deep as a well, for needing medication in the first place. But I chided myself for thinking this way. I am like a physically sick person - I need medication to get better too. There is no shame in that.
I am scheduled to see him by the end of this week, to up my dose. I don't know if it will mean anything, but I think it's proof I am trying the best I can to get better. See this, universe? I am still here, and I am still trying to get up again. And I will do it again and again and again. No matter how long it takes.