The Happiest Depressed Person I Know

My previous family doctor was the first person I told I was depressed. He put me on Zoloft and I would continue to see him until he retired several years later. (It would be a few years later that I would be diagnosed with bipolar and realized Zoloft was a bad idea. Oops.)

He had a wonderful nurse that worked for him (all of the staff were amazing) and she once told me "you're the happiest, depressed person I know." She said this because even though I was diagnosed with depression and even if I was in an episode of depression, I would always say hello with a smile on my face. I was always friendly, laugh if someone said something funny and crack my own jokes as well.

I've thought about that statement off and on over the years. Originally, my first thought was "I have to be like that, it's my way to survive. I'm putting on a brave face."  

But that's not true. I've been thinking about that statement recently, because I've been in an episode of depression and I've realized in those moments, when I'm being nice to people, when I'm laughing, making jokes and so on, it's genuine. I'm not acting. Depression conned me into believing I was putting on an act.

Lately I've been very depressed. One moment, I can be cracking a joke, dancing around and then when that stops "the weight of depression returns."  Thoughts of hurting myself or moments of binge eating return. The laughter, the joking, the interacting with people, doesn't get rid of my depression, it temporarily pauses it. Then the depression rushes back in like one of my IBS attacks, fast and furious.

It's amazing how depression can be so deceptive. My depression loves to tell me in those moments when I'm interacting with people, laughing, helping, whatever it may be, they are fake, they aren't real. Only the depression is real, everything else is an illusion.

When I remembered that statement and had the idea to write this post, I realized, that's bull shit.

It's not an illusion. It's the depression part of my brain trying to win over the healthy side of my brain. It's the depression part of my brain trying to mess with me. Telling me lies. Making me believe that I can't actually achieve feeling good. But, it's bullshit. Those moments are genuine, they are real and I need to remind myself of that. I need to keep reminding myself to try and hold the depression at bay. 

Depression is a crook, it's trying to steal my good moments, it has a strong front and it's relentless. To build up the defences and create a strong front for the good part of my brain, I need to allow myself to acknowledge those good moments are real, they are genuine and they can continue to happen. 

So when an employee tells me "I love how excited you get about things", I am going to tell myself "that statement is true and I bring joy to others" instead of "they are trying to tell me I am over the top and they don't like me."

When someone tells me "you are always so friendly when I see you", I am going to tell myself "I am friendly to others and it makes a difference" instead of "they think I'm miserable and I need to be happier."

When someone tells me "I really appreciate your help." I'm going to tell myself " I was helpful, I am knowledgeable" instead of "I'm stupid and they feel bad for me, they are just being nice."

I am going to allow myself the opportunity to acknowledge the truth. It won't be easy. At times, depression will do what it does best, attack me, to bring down my defences. 

There will be times where depression is an A+ con artist that pulls one over on me. My challenge will be, when that con artist does pull one over on me, not to take the blame. It's not my fault. Depression is a thief, a con artist, a liar, a manipulator and more. 

I can be happy and depressed, that is valid and I will make the effort to acknowledge the happy moments and when the negatives ones creep through, I will attempt to make the effort to wade through the shit and find the truth. 

And if I can't wade through the shit, then at the very least I need to know, it's not my fault, the fault belongs to depression. 

Depression is not me, it's a separate entity that has squatter rights in my brain. Get the fuck out, you have overstayed your welcome, you weren't welcome in the first place.

Forgiving Myself - A letter from my adult self to my adult self

I've been struggling lately. I'm depressed. In my last post, I wrote about an experience I had at the bathhouse. This most recent experience made me re-live being raped there. I left the bathhouse upset. Instead of blaming the guy who didn't want to accept my no, I blamed myself. I told myself that it's my fault that this happened to me. It's my fault because I'm a whore for going to the bathhouse. It's my fault because I sleep with too many guys, I'm disgusting because I use sex as an escape.

In my last therapist appointment I brought up how I was feeling. I got really upset. I was shaking because I was so angry with myself. I wanted to hit myself I was so angry. I talked about how I keep watching more extreme porn, using bigger sex toys and having so much sex and making more extreme sex choices because it's like trying to achieve a high. I'm trying to numb how I feel. I know the numbness from the sex is only temporary but it's better than nothing. After my appointment, I realized something. I need to forgive myself.

I previously wrote a letter to myself, my child self writing my adult self, forgiving me for everything I had been through and forgiving me for how I felt. I realized I needed to write a letter from my adult self to my adult self for what I've been through as an adult, choices I made to help me survive my feelings.

The letter:

You're hurting, a lot. You're sad. You're angry. You feel ashamed. You blame yourself. You're disgusted with choices you've made. Sexual choices. You've been chasing a high to avoid how you feel. It hasn't worked. It just makes you feel worse. You keep making extreme sex choices because you feel lonely. You feel empty. Because it takes away the pain even knowing it's only temporary.

I forgive you. I really do. This isn't your fault. You do it because you don't know what else to do. I forgive you. You do these sexual things because of your past traumas. Being raped, having an alcoholic, angry father. A sister who committed crimes. Being bullied. Feeling abandoned. Feeling unwanted. Feeling unloveable. Feeling worthless. Feeling like an inconvenience.

Watching porn, using large sex toys. Going to the bathhouse and having sex with lots of guys. Putting on a blindfold and letting guys fuck you. You did all that because you blame yourself for everything. Because of what you've been through. I forgive you. You are not worthless. You're not an inconvenience. You're not unloveable. You are worth everything. You are loveable. You are worth kindness. You are worth respect.

You don't need to be extremely sexual. You don't need to escape your feelings anymore. You are capable of managing your feelings. You are capable of changing your circumstances. Your family loves and cares about you. Your friends care about and love you. I care about and love you.

Your past doesn't have to weigh you down. Your past doesn't make you less than. You are worth loving. I'm excited for you to accept and move past this. You've been surviving for so long. You have permission to live your life. You deserve happiness. You are forgiven. I love you.

Overwhelmed with Feelings

Fuck. The darkness is back. It's heavy, it's exhausting, it won't leave me alone. I went grocery shopping today. It felt like I was trying to complete a marathon. I kept wandering around aimlessly, forgetting what I needed. A mental fog slowing me down, my brain tingly with confusion. There was one point where I wanted to give up shopping for groceries and just sit down in the aisle. I didn't. I pushed through and got back to my car. I sat in my car for a few minutes, I was so exhausted.

I tried to give myself credit. Credit for getting out bed and showering. Credit for buying groceries and putting them away when I got home. I know those are accomplishments when I'm feeling like such garbage but the negative talk takes over. I start telling myself, people do these things everyday. They are expected of us. People do these things with kids and other obligations. I'm pathetic. I'm not, but I am, but I'm not. Fuck off negative thoughts. Fuck off.

The darkness, the depression, the negative thoughts are because I've been avoiding something. My previous post was about writing a letter to the man who raped me at the bathhouse. I was finally starting to free myself of that. It wasn't consuming my thoughts, every minute of every day anymore. I was breaking free of it's grip until I was at the bathhouse a couple weeks ago. I was laying on my stomach, this guy was fucking me. I wasn't enjoying it and I wanted to take a break. I said "I need to take a break." He responded "ah, really?" in an annoyed tone. "Yes, I want to take a break."

When I tried to get up he wrapped his arms around me, his arm pressed against the front of my neck and said "shh, shh, just lay there, lay there, it's okay, it's okay." I froze. I wanted to move, I couldn't. My brain, my body, wouldn't let me. When I was raped, I was also on my stomach. I said I wanted to stop. When I tried to get up, he pushed me back down.

As I laid there with this guys arms wrapped around me, his arm on my neck making it uncomfortable to breath, I was frozen. I wanted to yell. I wanted to get up. I couldn't move. I wanted his dick out of me. Instead, I laid there, replaying what happened to me the last time I said no. Remembering when I said no and tried to get up, the guy pushing me back down. Remembering when I tried to get loud, the guy putting his hand over my mouth and biting his hand didn't stop him. Not just remembering but reliving it.

This guy kept kissing me and telling me not to move, to just relax, to wait a moment, saying to me "it's okay." I finally was able to speak, I said "I want to stop, I don't want to do this anymore." He said "ah man!, fine!, lame!"in an angry tone and finally got off of me, got out of me. I laid there, unable to move, waiting for him to leave the room. He slowly wrapped his towel around him. His tone changed. In a friendly tone he said "okay, well have a good one, oh, oh, here's your lube, don't want you to lose it." After what felt like an eternity, he finally opened the door and left.

I stayed motionless, thinking to myself, how many times is this going to happen? I thought about the past, when I wasn't comfortable saying no, before I had the courage to withdraw consent, before I was able to assert my needs. I thought about all the times I wanted to say no and I didn't. The times I wanted to stop but I let the guy finish because I didn't want to make him mad. If I would have been able to say no, how many of them would have kept going?

(On a side note, I am listening to music while I write this and "Do what you want with my body" by Lady Gaga came on - bad fucking timing).

I know I shouldn't blame myself.  I shouldn't blame myself but I can't help it. I keep thinking, that it's my fault, my fault because I'm a slut for going to the bathhouse. It's my fault because I let him climb on top of me and fuck me, without even saying a word, without getting his name. I keep thinking about what a whore I am. I'm angry. I'm hurting and directing it all inward.

When these negative thoughts manifest, I become overwhelmed. I want them to stop. I keep imagining myself walking into the bathroom, grabbing a razor blade and sliding the blade across my skin. Anything to make the pain, the feelings stop. I would rather the pain of the blade than the pain of what I'm feeling.

It's been almost a couple years since I've cut myself. The last time I cut myself, I cut the word whore into my left thigh and the word faggot into my right thigh. The urge to do so again is strong, so strong. I resist because I don't want the scars. I don't want the daily reminder of what I did. I am lucky, the cuts healed last time, what if they don't this time? Instead of cutting, I eat. I eat too much. Too much fast food. After I gorge, I hate myself and I want to cut myself.

Instead of cutting myself, I am writing. I am talking about what happened. Sharing my feelings in the hopes of lifting some of this weight holding me down. Letting it out. However,

I'm... I'm... just so tired of trying to survive. When will I feel like I'm living and not just surviving? Will that ever happen? Is it possible?