How depression is the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me
A year ago, and even the years before that, my blog consisted of my many break downs. I’d like to think I’ve gotten better at not breaking down on my blog. I did many embarrassing things I can never undo, but that’s okay.
I’ve been depressed for years; I was only diagnosed with MDD and PTSD 19 March 2012. So many people surrounding me treated me like I was sick and needed to hide the fact that I had it. Still, some do, but as I researched it this past year, I’ve come to realization that those who shun me and treat me like I have leprosy simply haven’t learned about what either of the aforementioned disorders are.
Depression. When I would hear that word, I’d instantly feel saddened. I still do, but I have a better understanding of it. I know that not everyone who is depressed has thoughts of killing themselves all of the time. I know that having depression does not automatically label me as suicidal. I know that having depression means I may be happy sometimes, but it doesn’t label me as Bipolar contrary to what others may believe. It’s an atrocious thing, but that doesn’t mean that I have to be embarrassed by it.
Depressed: It’s a term used by many people widely and often even out of context. Some who say they are depressed will often say they have depression, but having depression and being depressed are two different things.
I haven’t truly found myself yet, but I have found a self of mine that I am okay with — and being okay with a self of mine is better than having hate towards it. I used to myself because I have depression. I was so ashamed that I didn’t want to see anyone or even talk much about it; I was so ashamed that I’d spend the majority of my time curled up in bed crying or just hating myself. I wasn’t dwelling or moping; I was literally hating myself for having this horrendous thing that the rest of the world talked down upon, especially for people my age. For people my age, depression is referred to as “lazy”. Or people want proof that I have it — they want to see the paper. I didn’t want anyone to see the paper, because I didn’t even want to see the paper. It was as if a stupid piece of paper was what was needed for proof that I hated myself — as if knowing that I had actually attempted suicide wasn’t enough. But not many people knew I had attempted it. I mean, how can one accurately explain that they were unintentionally about to commit suicide without others hearing only that you were attempting it, and then going ballistic over merely that?
I remember sitting in the passenger seat with my dad on the way to his house to visit he and that side of the family and trying to explain to him things that happened. When he told me that I needed to “get it out of the front of [my] mind”, I immediately shut down. I wanted to cry right in his Escalade. I wanted to scream out — to snap at him — all that I had been through and that it was PTSD and NOT my fault that I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Most of all, I just wanted to cry. I had tried to get him to read my blog, but he wouldn’t; that hurt, too, but not as much as when he shut me down.
I don’t remember a lot of things in my life I have seen or heard or been told or even lived. A psychiatrist told me that that’s my brain emptying itself of the things that destruct me and trying to heal me, but with the PTSD and MDD that it was a slow process. The psychiatrist also told me that it was disposing the embarrassing moments and difficult times to make new ones, but the PTSD kept moving the memories showing up in the flashbacks and that that is why I can’t get them out of my head, thus other memories are being deleted in their place.
A lot of my high school classmates are graduating from university, or they already have degrees. Some have great jobs already. I’m so glad that Grandmama doesn’t find college to be the most important thing in life, because it puts a lot less stress on me. I told her about something that I’d like to do as a career, and she was very accepting of it and thought it was a great idea. It’s something I’m already great at and I love to do. I’ll just take a few classes in it when I have the money and mental ability to learn some more skills and techniques. If all goes well, I’ll talk about it later on.
I used to want to change myself because many people didn’t accept me for me. Now, I have an attitude that I use and live by, even if I lose friends over it. It sucks, but it’s the attitude I’ve developed and grown into that allows me to actually be okay with a self of mine — and I can’t afford to change it and stray away from being okay with that self of mine right now.
This entire post is basically a thought cluster, but all in all, depression is the worst thing that has ever happened to me in terms of it completely screwing up my life, yet it’s the best thing that has ever happened to me in terms of it helping me to discover who I want to be and what I want to do in the world. It has also pushed me to start Abuse Aloud and Hope Fades, two websites I doubt I would have even thought of without it.