Life, curveballs and struggling with depression

Sometimes, I feel as though I’m suffocating. Choking on all the stress and problems that come up in my life. I think the hardest thing to swallow about it all is the fact that it’s all my fault.

Well, I can’t necessarily say that it’s hard to swallow, I accept it. All of it and I own it. I own the fat that most of my problems are my fault, always my fault and will always be my fault. So, in accepting that fact, I try my hardest to fix everything without asking for help. It’s my problem, ya know, so why ask for outside help?

The biggest problem- at least for me, when I ask people for help, they always find a way to make me feel more guilty than I already do about asking. About my situation.

The best and most hurtful example I can give is when I decided to see a therapist while I was still in school. It was confidential so no one in my family had to know about it. I was in a very bad state at the time so I figured, it would help me. And it did, it helped for as long as I could keep myself together and attempt to take my medicine on time. However, as it goes in my life, things went wrong. I spiraled.

I ended up having to go to the hospital one night because I could no longer bear the weight of everything. The weight of existing. So I decided to down the rest of the antidepressants that I had left.

I’ve told this story a couple of times, in different ways. Some more subtle than the rest but I still can’t rid myself of the pain of it. Being in the hospital, attached to an IV hearing my heartbeat beat a little too fast for the nurse’s comfort wasn’t the worse part.

The worse part came when I had to tell my parents, which meant that now my whole family knew and they all took t very negatively. With the exception of a couple who either brushed it off or assured me that they’ll be there when I needed it.

The worse part came when my aunt texted me basically letting me know that by seeing a therapist, I was putting the family name to shame. That by trying to kill myself and having depression it meant that I wasn’t praying enough. That I wasn’t focusing on “god”. That I needed to go to church and ask god for forgiveness.

The worst part came when I decided to leave school after that and I got shit for it. They told me that someone without a degree would get no respect. They told me that not going nowhere to school made me a nobody.

So, I slept and I cried for week because I didn’t know what I was doing. Because I felt so worthless. Because no one understood the extent of hopelessness I felt. Because they made me feel like I was crazy. I kept telling myself after I left the hospital and decided not to go to the psych ward that I would never try to kill myself every again but the reality is that I suppress the feeling way too often than not.

I keep telling myself that everything will be okay even though I have no hope that they will. I have no purpose. I have no idea what I’m doing. So I stress out about it because everyone else stresses me out about it because I’m doing nothing with my life.

I go through moments where I start spending money recklessly. Money that I shouldn’t be spending. Money that I was supposed to use to pay off the loans that are now due because I’m out of school. I’m not sure what possesses me to do it. How it’s supposed to fill the void but I do it anyway.

Maybe I just don’t care. Maybe it’s just symptoms…

Symptoms.

I hate calling it that. I hate knowing that I have symptoms- if I even have symptoms. Maybe I’m just a hypocrite, clinging to the stigmas that it’s all in my head and I just need to get over it. Maybe people have just been telling me for so long that I just need to stop feeling sorry for myself that it’s what I believe I’m doing.

I hate talking about depression. I don’t feel comfortable talking about my depression. I don’t feel comfortable talking about how I feel.

I hate that when shit gets bad I cut off everyone. I hate that when shit gets bad I cancel plans- plans I was looking forward to. I hate calling out of work when I’m having a down day because I feel I can just suck it up and get over it.

All I want to do is apologize to everyone who has ever had to deal with me. Who has ever had to deal with my mood swings and episodes.

I just want to apologize for the person that I am and can’t help being.

Sometimes, I wonder why I bother talking about my problems because no one cares. They pretend to but they don’t actually. Your problems are a burden to them. The iceberg to their titanic.

Or maybe I’m just paranoid with just issues and can’t comprehend why anyone would ever have an interest in my problems.

I’m trying not to cry while I write this which is proving to be not as hard as I thought. I don’t think I’ve actually had a full cry since last year. All I feel is numb when it hits me.

I wrote a book and self published it this month. When I first got the idea to do it, I was beyond excited. I was completely head over heels. For the first time, I had achieved something that I dreamed of doing.

The days leading up to the release of it, I was anxious, excited, stressed. Some days I wrote nothing and other days I was writing up to four or five poems. I poured my heart into the poems I was writing. I was high. I was drunk. I was sober.

I had high hopes that the book would be a success. I made endless videos attempting to promoted and people were into it. They were looking forward to reading it. So, that made me feel good. It made me feel amazing.

Then that day came, the day I was supposed to release it and it was as if a switch was turned off because I felt nothing. It’s as if in that moment that the book was shit and no one was going to buy it. All those people that were smoking me up, filling my head with false hope disappeared. When I released my book, they were nowhere to be found.

It’s a funny thing about support. People will say they’re behind you one hundred percent when you present an idea but when you put the idea in motion and see it through, their support wanes and vanishes.

I guess it just roots back to my lack of trust in people.

I’m not sure why I’m writing all this. No one ever really cares about your feelings. I guess I’m not okay right now. I guess I’m just lonely and to accustomed to my own company.

I often think about going back to therapy but I have no money. So in its place, I use alcohol and writing as therapy. It’s not always effective, sometimes it just makes it worse but for a spare moment, it helps.

I’m not sure about many things nowadays but the one thing I’m sure of is my dream to get away. Move away from everyone and everything that I know and start somewhere new. A new beginning. Who knows. Maybe that is what I need. Something new and refreshing.

I’m not sure what to call this. An essay. Therapy. An ode to depression. Some girl bitching about the shitty life she’s created for herself.

For now, I guess I’ll end by saying I’m just lost.

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