I’ve suffered from depression since around the time I was ten. I have no memory of exactly when it started, but I think it was around the time I was in fourth or fifth grade. Most of my memories from fifth and sixth grade are of my sitting on the floor in the girls’ room, typically under the sink, crying for long stretches of time and trying to figure out if the bracer bar of the cubicles would hold my weight if I hung myself from it. Or if I could manage to successfully drown myself in the sink without getting caught.
There are lots of things that might have contributed to my depression. Top of my list are genetics and abuse that started when I was very young. I know both my grandmother and mother attempted suicide at least once each, and my mother has been plagued with depression for as long as I can remember. I’ve never spent enough steady time with my grandmother to be able to tell if she still deals with it or not. And honestly, I doubt she knows that I do too.
I’m on medication, whatever the off brand of Prozac is, and I was in therapy for years, but recently stopped due to a move. I haven’t had the energy to either find a new therapist or start over with one. There are a lot of difficult things that I told my last therapist over the years that I do not want to have to do again.
For awhile after moving I thought I was fine. I was great, finally happy with every aspect of my life. And a part of me thought that yes, this is it, this is what normal people feel like all the time. I have nothing really to complain about (aside from my weight, but now that the source of my depression was gone, that would be gone soon too, I thought).
But then it hit again. Just a little at first. I would find myself sleeping longer. Staring off into space. Slightly numb around the edges. Then it got a bit worse. I wouldn’t get up until I had to get ready for work. I stopped showering every day. I pulled away even further than I had before, even with my boyfriend. And now I’m here. I don’t even want to get up most days. I can’t seem to find the energy to do anything. My work is suffering, though thankfully my boss hasn’t noticed yet. I haven’t had sex with my boyfriend in months.
So now I’m here. Because I don’t know what else to do. I can’t bring myself to see another therapist; I’ve had such bad luck with them in the past. And I can’t bring myself to go over all the terrible things with someone new. Not with where I am now. You have to be strong to talk about abuse. And I’m not there right now. So I’ll talk about it here, anonymously, where I can’t hear the sharp intake of breath when I say what happened when I was five, or see the pity in your eyes when I tell you what happened when I was seventeen.
So here I am, baring myself to the internet while still remaining hidden behind a screen. And hoping to god this helps. Just enough to keep me breathing. That’ll be enough for now.