I still remember the first time I heard the word depression. I was a kid in middle school, going through the usual health education classes and in my class, we skimmed along the mental health section with the usual spiel about how if you're going to kill yourself, you should reach out to someone and that was the end of the conversation. Like most thirteen-year-olds, it was no big deal to me and I didn't pay much attention to it because it didn't apply to me...at least I didn't think it did. It wasn't until a year later that I came face-to-face with my monsters for the first time in a very ugly way. I was fourteen the first time I cut myself. I never was one to draw blood because I was too scared to, but I definitely used a needle to scratch to the point where it stung and left marks for days. Just enough to numb the pain and isolation caused by having to live with the huge secret of what my father had done. Just enough to provide relief for the anxiety and pain I felt on the inside that I couldn't express to anyone.
My father is a sex offender, charged and convicted with indecency with a child. He molested a girl two years older than me and lied about it for years. He is also an abuser. For years, he abused my mom and myself. He would scream at me and tell me I was a worthless bitch and would amount to nothing. Lots of other obscenities were flung in the years to come after I became a teenager. There were times when he would push me against a wall and cock his fist back at me, saying I was "so damn lucky" because he had so much self-control or I would be through the wall. He slapped me across the face for "back-talking" and standing up for myself when I told him to be the parent one time when my brothers were hungry, I had a lot of homework, and my mom had a night class. He would tell me everything I was involved in was stupid or a waste of time and money. And on particularly bad nights, he would beat me with a thick leather belt for whatever "infraction" I had done. Sometimes I have these memories of other things that happened, but I can never decipher if they're real or a nightmare I had. My gut says they're real. The abuse carried on for a while, kept secret because of his promise to make it worse if I ever told anyone, especially my mom. My biological father was/is a manipulative and conniving man, so no one knew anything about the home life I lived. Many still don't or live in denial that it happened.
I was diagnosed with depression when I was just fifteen. Medications made me sick to my stomach and my first counselor was an unsympathetic asshole, who made me shut down even more, so I kept on cutting and prayed that it would all be over soon. One night when I was about sixteen, I tried to end it all and take my life, but I failed twice when the pills didn't work and I was too scared to hold myself under my bath water for long enough. When my mother filed for divorce and my father was forced to leave, things improved but it was still hard because I had to go on court ordered visitation with him every other weekend. I tried counseling a second time and was able to find a counselor who was understanding, empathetic, and allowed me to open up at my own given pace when I trusted her. The cutting stopped and I was finally able to breathe for the first time in nearly three years around the time I turned eighteen and was able to walk away from my biological father.
Through the last twelve years, I have had a lot of ups and downs with depression, anxiety, and struggling with finding who I am. During my years of abuse, I was told I wouldn't amount to anything. Now I have two degrees and yet, I still feel worthless sometimes because of all the years of hearing I was nothing. It's difficult for me to trust and open up in relationships, both romantic and non-romantic, because of the abuse. I question people's intentions toward me and constantly look for reasons for people to hate me, even when there are none. Sometimes my anxiety is so bad, I can't even hear my own rational thoughts over the constant nagging thoughts of how stupid I sound or how my decision is just going to end badly. My anxiety spikes on particularly bad days when I'm triggered by a memory or I happen to see a vehicle that resembles the one my biological father supposedly drives. I've even seen him in public a few times, which tail-spun me into an anxiety attack. I happen to have two degrees in Psychology, so I understand the processes I'm going through with the anxiety, but it doesn't make it any easier to live with.
Depression is something that people tend to romanticize or criticize. There are the posts on Tumblr and Twitter about girls with mascara running down their face and captions about depression, making it seem so glamorous. This is wrong...don't make depression or any mental illness seem like a damn fad. It's dumb and makes everyone who really has a mental illness look completely stupid. Or, on the other side of things, people tend to just tell those who live with depression, "Oh cheer up, it's not that bad" or "Some have it so much worse" or things like that. Thank you, you heartless assholes, for invalidating my feelings and making me feel like a leech on society for something I can't control. Yes, let me just turn off the way I feel and make you feel better about patting me on the shoulder and saying, "There, there", before sending me packing. What people don't understand is how hard I work to keep myself going some days. I work at a mental health agency and sometimes, it's overwhelming and I have to remind myself to leave it at the office instead of taking home some of the things I hear and see.
Something I have learned through living with depression for so many years is compassion and understanding. If someone comes to me and says that they are having a hard time getting out of bed every day, I won't judge them because I know that struggle. I might have a full-time job, but some days it is very difficult for me to get up and going. Some days I have to mask the inner struggle, even from my closest friends, because I don't want to burden them with the really dark things that go through my mind, even in passing. And some days, the storm lifts long enough for me to see the sun. To know that I'm not going insane from the weight I feel. It gives me hope and provides me with the strength to fight the bad days. That is what I fight for. To have more good days than bad. And I know I'll get there again.
