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Right in the feels
May. 9th, 2013 12:52 pmLike a lot of my friends, I'm a fan of a webcomic/blog called Hyperbole and a Half by a woman called Allie Brosh. She's been pretty quiet for a while now (about a year and a half, in fact) and today she posted the reason why in this post.
You ever have a moment when you read something and realise it's like reading the inside of your brain? Allie's experience with depression - and especially her suicidal feelings - were scarily close to mine. It hurts, reading it, but it also helps, since here is someone who is able to explain what I've never been able to.
I still feel guilty about being depressed. Because I know what a burden I was to my friends and I know how frustrating it was for them to watch me sink deeper and deeper into hopelessness. I know, because I've been in the reverse position myself, with my ex. You'd think it would have helped when it was my turn, but it really didn't, and now I'm reluctant to talk about the depression with most but a very few people. I feel like I've leeched all the understanding and compassion I deserve, when people were trying to fill the great black hole of nothing that was the depression at its worst:
And that's the most frustrating thing about depression. It isn't always something you can fight back against with hope. It isn't even something — it's nothing. And you can't combat nothing. You can't fill it up. You can't cover it. It's just there, pulling the meaning out of everything. That being the case, all the hopeful, proactive solutions start to sound completely insane in contrast to the scope of the problem.
I'm sorry I couldn't respond to help, that I couldn't talk out what was bothering me and feel better. I did talk stuff out - over and over - but all it did was make me feel worse because isn't talking meant to make you feel better, and all it did for me was highlight just how depressed and hopeless I was. And eventually, I got to the place Allie describes frighteningly well:
...I somehow managed to convince myself that everything was still under my control right up until I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn't feel obligated to keep existing... there I was, casually wishing that I could stop existing in the same way you'd want to leave an empty room or mute an unbearably repetitive noise.
I never wanted to kill myself. I just wanted to be dead. I wanted to stop. Everything. I pushed everyone away so I could tell myself it would be all right to kill myself, because no-one cared any way. And ironically, it was the fact my parents were visiting that made me not do it. I didn't want to spoil their first trip overseas together.
Yeah. Depressed brains totally make no sense.
It took [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] basically threatening to hate me forever if I did something stupid that got me to the doctor and the meds which, frankly, saved my life. They lifted the blanket long enough for some light to creep back in, and gave me perspective again.
These days, I'm mostly doing better. I have bad times, usually when I'm having PMS and it feels like everything is likely to make me feel like crap and that I can't do anything right. I have moments where I just wish I could stay in bed with the blankets pulled over my head and disappear forever - at the same time all I want is for someone to notice I'm not doing so well and take care of me and let me cuddle with them on the sofa. I have little to no interest in sex for about three years now. I over-compensate sometimes, trying to be the life of the group, to somehow make up for the fact I was such an enormous downer. That usually results in being an arse. *sighs* I have trouble getting enthusiastic for the things that used to excite me, much like Allie's metaphor of a child outgrowing their toys: school is the first thing in three years I've been excited about for an extended time, and I'm clinging to that while I have it. Things are getting better, step by step.
Normally I'd hide this behind a filter, mostly so I don't bore people. Not this time, tho'. Perhaps I'm just looking for attention. Who knows.
You ever have a moment when you read something and realise it's like reading the inside of your brain? Allie's experience with depression - and especially her suicidal feelings - were scarily close to mine. It hurts, reading it, but it also helps, since here is someone who is able to explain what I've never been able to.
I still feel guilty about being depressed. Because I know what a burden I was to my friends and I know how frustrating it was for them to watch me sink deeper and deeper into hopelessness. I know, because I've been in the reverse position myself, with my ex. You'd think it would have helped when it was my turn, but it really didn't, and now I'm reluctant to talk about the depression with most but a very few people. I feel like I've leeched all the understanding and compassion I deserve, when people were trying to fill the great black hole of nothing that was the depression at its worst:
And that's the most frustrating thing about depression. It isn't always something you can fight back against with hope. It isn't even something — it's nothing. And you can't combat nothing. You can't fill it up. You can't cover it. It's just there, pulling the meaning out of everything. That being the case, all the hopeful, proactive solutions start to sound completely insane in contrast to the scope of the problem.
I'm sorry I couldn't respond to help, that I couldn't talk out what was bothering me and feel better. I did talk stuff out - over and over - but all it did was make me feel worse because isn't talking meant to make you feel better, and all it did for me was highlight just how depressed and hopeless I was. And eventually, I got to the place Allie describes frighteningly well:
...I somehow managed to convince myself that everything was still under my control right up until I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn't feel obligated to keep existing... there I was, casually wishing that I could stop existing in the same way you'd want to leave an empty room or mute an unbearably repetitive noise.
I never wanted to kill myself. I just wanted to be dead. I wanted to stop. Everything. I pushed everyone away so I could tell myself it would be all right to kill myself, because no-one cared any way. And ironically, it was the fact my parents were visiting that made me not do it. I didn't want to spoil their first trip overseas together.
Yeah. Depressed brains totally make no sense.
It took [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com] basically threatening to hate me forever if I did something stupid that got me to the doctor and the meds which, frankly, saved my life. They lifted the blanket long enough for some light to creep back in, and gave me perspective again.
These days, I'm mostly doing better. I have bad times, usually when I'm having PMS and it feels like everything is likely to make me feel like crap and that I can't do anything right. I have moments where I just wish I could stay in bed with the blankets pulled over my head and disappear forever - at the same time all I want is for someone to notice I'm not doing so well and take care of me and let me cuddle with them on the sofa. I have little to no interest in sex for about three years now. I over-compensate sometimes, trying to be the life of the group, to somehow make up for the fact I was such an enormous downer. That usually results in being an arse. *sighs* I have trouble getting enthusiastic for the things that used to excite me, much like Allie's metaphor of a child outgrowing their toys: school is the first thing in three years I've been excited about for an extended time, and I'm clinging to that while I have it. Things are getting better, step by step.
Normally I'd hide this behind a filter, mostly so I don't bore people. Not this time, tho'. Perhaps I'm just looking for attention. Who knows.
