This post is in no way directed to anyone reading it. It is actually directed towards a person I had a conversation with yesterday. So when the word “you” is seen, it isn’t you dear reader. 🙂
It must be nice to know so much. Is it even a little possible that you could be wrong about something? You are extremely right and wise about much of life, but depression is really something you know little about. Though I can never say it to you vocally, how dare you tell me that I am not trying hard enough. How dare you propose that if I would just try harder, things would be better. How can you tell me I just need to “get over” the depression and anxiety. How dare you?
How dare you make accusations and assumptions thousands of miles away? How dare you be insensitive and uncaring? I must remember though that you are of a certain time and mindset. You are geared to think of depression and anxiety a certain way, but your words hurt me. I cried harsh and bitter tears last night. I cried and screamed into pillows. I was suffocated with too much air. Thanks so much for your advice. You know what I really wanted? I wanted someone to tell me that I am ok. I wanted love. I wanted someone to listen to what is the real me and to still want me afterwards. I really wanted someone to make me believe I am not too far gone. Can’t you look at the mess that is me and love me anyway?
In your opinion, I am cheating God, my boss, and my church. I am believing that this is not permanent. Medication won’t fix everything, but it will help. In just over a month, I will be taking medication again. How that day is longed for. You seem to think I am too far gone, untreatable even. I am not broken. I just need some help. This is not my forever. I am holding on to that. I think this is my humanity. If human I am not allowed to be, what is the purpose here?
You tried to talk about reasons for trying. You mentioned the beautiful things in life. For you, seeing a rose in your mother’s garden makes life a little easier. You enjoy that moment. That literally made me laugh. I am not counting on a flower to make me feel anything at all. I mentioned that for me, it would be fun to burn the rose. You freaked out. You said, “yeah, why don’t we just color it black with blood running out of it.” Dang it, I think that sounds beautiful! Your idea of beauty and my idea are different. There is nothing wrong with that. You were so irritated by the fact that I like blood. You mentioned that as a child I would never watch anything on television with blood and gore. Gore, the pain of others, I cannot tolerate. Blood though is beautiful and a sign of life. Pain inflicted upon another being of any kind is terrible and deeply hated.
It amuses me that you think you understand. It is ironic that you say that really the majority of people deal with depression and anxiety. I am sure to a small degree that is true. I cannot believe that everyone feels the way I do right now. If they do, I cannot even resolve that kind of thought in my brain. It is far too devastating.You “ask” how people dealt with these issues years ago without medication and without help. My response is that they did the best they could. I cannot even imagine. You mean it as more of an accusation. If they could do it, can’t we do it today? Sure. But do you understand what they went through? I don’t either because we are blessed to live in this time. And I am not anyone else. I am not you. I am not those people from hundreds of years ago. I am me. Your box is not mine.
It pains me deeply to know that you think of me in such ways. I hate that you can’t be proud of me and see me as beautiful in spite of my flaws. Here is my decision though, you are entitled to your opinion. I will deal with the hurt that comes from your thoughts. I will be honest with you but will not open up to you anymore. I will deal with this without your help. What was I thinking anyway? With the passage of time comes the realization that people can rarely be counted on. Sometimes arm’s length is required for safety reasons. This is life. I am doing the best I can here. I appreciate your attempt to be helpful. No doubt you were sincere and had good intentions. I love you still, but somehow, this seems unfair.
This probably sounds pitiful. I know that some of you will understand as you deal with others who don’t understand your depression. How do you talk with these people if the topic arises? Do you have any previous experience with this? Thanks for reading!