It has probably been about four years since I actually accepted I was mentally ill. I was diagnosed depressed when I was twelve, close to a year and a half after my mother commited suicide. Of course at that age I wasn’t going to believe some doctor telling me I was sick in my head. As far as I was concerned, I was just going through life’s worst case of puberty. Whatever was wrong in my head would work itself out. After all, my brain wasn’t finished developing yet. I threw the Prozac I started getting a prescription for at sixteen in the trash. I didn’t need it.
Flash forward and I’ve admitted and accepted that I am one of many with mental health issues. I am still learning about how to cope with my depression and anxiety but still can’t find a good enough answer to “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing” is always the easiest answer. It’s better than struggling to find a way to tell you, hell even to show you, what’s going on. But I really have a list of answers for you:
I’m so tired. No seriously, I’m exhausted. All day I’ve been chasing my thoughts around my head. I’ve been trying to bring the optimism to the front but I’ve been trampled on over and over by pessimism. What you’ve been looking at as a temporary issue, I’ve been looking at as an endless possibility of ways to make life exponentially more terrible. All while telling myself what everyone else is telling me: “This is only temporary.” Only I can’t believe myself, or you, or our neighbor and our best friend. There will always be something else coming up. Living in your head is more tiring than living in the outside world.
I’m so heavy. I know, I know. I’m not fat. You’re only taking what I say at face value. I am carrying more than just the pudge that was left after having my two girls. I’ve got the weight of my previous choices, my car that now really isn’t my car anymore, getting my girls to school on time (or at all), making sure my boyfriend gets enough attention from me so he doesn’t think I’m uninterested or unappreciative of all he does for us, doing something around the house so nobody looks at me like a lazy fuck who does nothing but close herself up in her room. I’ve got people to make happy on all corners.
I’m too fucking forgetful. Did I take my meds today? Did I take them yesterday? Have I had a shower today? Did I put deodorant on? Where the hell did I put my phone? Did I ever call my grandma like I said I would? Did I eat today? Why the fuck can’t I remember to do these normal ass tasks?
I’m so sorry. I am in a continous state of apology. I have done terrible things and I don’t deserve love, yet it is still given to me. I just want you to know I am sorry for what I’ve done and what I might do. For what I said without thinking, for what I impulsively did to try and get your attention, for the sharp tongue I have when I’m angry. All of these things I am learning to control, but I can’t tell you when I’ll have it mastered. For that, I am sorry.
I wish my motivation came as easy as yours. I see the trash can overflowing. I know I should change the bag, but that would require energy that i just don’t have. Sure, a clean room would be awesome. I can’t get my ass out of this bed. I want to. I hope some day I am as motivated as you.
I am forever trying to improve myself. I just can’t explain what is on the inside to those who live on the outside.