CW: Severe depression. Go gently, dear heart.
“I’m sorry” is the refrain of my 11:30 pm sob session. (This is why I’ve been going to be at 9 o’clock lately, I suspect.)
I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why I need to tell you any of this. I’ve never been religious, but maybe this is my sort of confession? You don’t have to be here if it’s too hard to hear. But what I think I hope? I think I hope that anyone who finds this might feel less alone. We’re not alone we’re not alone we’re not alone. Even at 11:32 pm at night on a Saturday, bawling against our stuffed penguins.
This isn’t anyone’s fault, even when I’ve been eager in the past to point blame. You see, I have so desperately wanted this to make sense and if I could just throw an easy capital-V VILLAIN under the bus, then great. Wonderful. Because if it’s no one’s fault, it’s just mine, right?
It feels like my fault.
I feel like a disaster. Sitting here on my pink unicorn flannel sheets, eyes swollen again from crying. I feel like a mess. I am struggling at work, I am struggling at everything. I am struggling. I need you to hear it.
I’m not okay. And that’s okay.
I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for worrying you. But I know the answer (for me, at least) isn’t to hide. I know what it meant to me to read the words of someone else like me, I know what it still means.
I’M NOT OKAY. I want to climb on top of my roof and fucking scream it until my throat is jagged.
I think sometimes I will always feel this way and I don’t know if I can do it, you know? But I can. I’m strong and so are you. We are stronger than this stupid fucking bullshit fucking disease. FUCK YOU, DEPRESSION. FUCK YOU, MENTAL ILLNESS.
WE ARE STRONG. I WILL SCREAM THAT FROM MY ROOF ALSO. Someone will be sad if you’re not here in the morning, so wake up, please, sweet friend. I will make you coffee whenever you need it. All you have to do is show up. Keep showing up. I’ll keep showing up.
And maybe that’s the fucking thing and it fucking sucks: Maybe we don’t have to be “good” at anything right now. Maybe it’s enough to survive. To drink a mug of coffee and make it through another day. Maybe that’s as beautiful as any play or poem or symphony. You are an achievement exactly as you are.
You are beautiful. YOU. You are a fucking marvel and I’m so happy you’re here. Tell me how you take your coffee.
I’m not okay. I’m so sorry if you aren’t either. But we’re not giving up, okay? Even if not giving up looks like staying in bed tomorrow. Someone wise reminded me recently there’s no set timeline to any of this. We don’t have to do this in any particular order. There aren’t any rules so long as you make it out, okay? I will bring you ice cream for fucking breakfast in bed.
(I think sometimes I’m just talking to myself. Thanks for bearing with me.)
I think I write about this so much because, maybe if I can make it into something sort of beautiful, it will all be worth it? I’ll have been worth it? I feel like I have to earn everything, I have to DESERVE it. I’m so tired.
Depression is a monster who lies. Like frogs and snakes and baby penguins, you have intrinsic value. You’re valuable because you’re here. If anyone ever makes you feel differently, they suck and that’s the truth. (I’m sorry. I feel more urgent than eloquent tonight.) Wherever you are… just stay with us, okay?