Buried Pieces

Almost three years ago, I experienced depression for the first time. I was young and stupid and really, if I were to tell you what started my downward slope, you would give me an incredulous look. Maybe would ask me how I let such a ridiculous thing get to me that much. The “event” was such a minuscule thing compared to what was to come though. I’m not going to explain it for the sake of my sanity and because I am not sitting here, writing, to talk about that. It doesn’t matter what started it. What matters and what I’m writing about is what happened after it.

My health had already started declining before it happened. I haven’t told very many people about this, but might as well now, right? For about a month leading up to the “event”, I wasn’t eating much. My reasoning then was not that I wasn’t eating because I wanted to be skinny. I didn’t eat because I just wasn’t hungry; I simply had too much on my mind. But now, if I’m being completely and one hundred percent honest, I think there was a little part of me that knew what I was really doing. But I didn’t make any actions to change it. I think I did it because I felt like I was already on a destructive path, so why not, right? God, I can’t believe that was my thought process at one point.

My short dabble in anorexia stopped when the “event” happened. I was too pissed off not to eat. I was too angry and refused to let my family have something to question me about, so my eating habits went back to normal. I still dropped a lot of weight over the course of the next two months, but that was because I spent all my time sleeping. And then when I was awake, I would eat, but I wasn’t awake that much. Hence the rapid weight loss. I didn’t notice it though. All I could think about was that I needed to escape. And, for me, sleep was that. I slept so much that I lost my sense of time. My family would have to remind me.

I think the reason I loved sleeping so much was that it was a place where my thoughts didn’t exist. I didn’t dream. My consciousness would shut off and I dreaded the moment when it would wake up again. I wasn’t exactly joyful of what happened to my brain when I unwillingly left my solace. Terrible thoughts came and swirled like the wind in my mind. They had been there for so long, I had begun to get used to it. The terrible thoughts no longer seemed terrifying to me.

What I would do to leave this hellhole called life.

Just grab the box cutter; it won’t hurt that bad.

Am I really even alive?

I’m like a walking corpse.

You know…..I’m kinda tired of breathing.

Way to go stupid! Now they’re gonna know something is wrong for sure!

Oh, quick. Put on a smile. Make it convincing!

So many ways to choose from…

Air is going into my lungs and I wish my lungs would stop doing that.

Can I just die now?

I am so freaking tired of being tired!!!

Just get it over with. Don’t chicken out like last time.

With tears in my eyes, I truthfully tell you that those were most of my thoughts. I almost cut myself multiple times. If you can believe it, the only thing that stopped me from taking that box cutter to my wrists was because I was worried I would do it wrong and end up slitting my wrists. Stupid, huh? Well, it wasn’t long after that when suicide entered the resounding chorus in my head. Like everyone who deals with depression, I thought it was the only way to end it. I figured I was already dead inside and all that was left was the physical me. So what was the point in staying here any longer? I contemplated killing myself for months. One night, after fighting with my parents and then my so-called best friend told me I was on my own, I decided I’d had enough. I stared at that pill bottle for a good half hour. I kept rethinking my decision. But finally, my exhaustion won. I swiped the bottle off of my desk and tried desperately to unscrew the cap. My younger sister came in at that very moment and the cap flew open, spilling the precious pills everywhere. And she helped me pick them up. She had no idea that she was cleaning up the things that, if she hadn’t come in, would have led to my imminent destruction. It was that night, when I was lying awake in my room, that I realized how close I had come to something I honestly didn’t want.

See…..I don’t think any of us who are in that mindset really want to truly die. We may be extremely sick of being alive, but when you really get down to the most buried pieces of ourselves, we’re just tired. We are exhausted by the weight of life and feel the only cure is dying. And I mean a physical death. Our minds and souls are already dead at that point. It’s scary, but true. Depression eats away at a person until there is nothing left but the physical aspects. A person can breathe oxygen into their lungs, but they are not breathing. A person will live through the day, but they stopped living a long time ago. It’s the sad truth, unfortunately.

Finally after days, weeks, months of thinking that all I wanted was to die, I realized I didn’t. I knew I couldn’t get better on my own though, that I had to tell someone. And since my friends had ditched me(including my best friend at the time), I had no choice but to tell someone in my family. My first choice was my mom, but I couldn’t do it. I could not tell her. It was too painful. I loved her too, too much and I couldn’t bear to see the look on her face when her little girl told her she almost killed herself. So I opted instead for my dad. It was still really hard, but I told him something was wrong with me and we needed to talk. He tried guessing, but I refused to tell him just then. The next day, he took me out to spend the day together. Honestly, I don’t remember how I told him or what happened leading up to that. I just remember a lot of quiet and him asking me “why”. We went home and the next day, both of my parents took me out. Wordlessly, they took me to a cemetery. But it wasn’t any old graveyard. It was the final resting place of a family friend. She had died two years earlier in a car crash. She was only seventeen. At the time, I thought the way my parents were talking to me was harsh. It really wasn’t. They just wanted to tell me that they wanted me to live. That they didn’t want to bury their daughter like our friends’ parents did her. They reminded me that she had died by accident. They knew how much I missed her and asked me why and how I would leave that kind of hole in them or in the rest of my family by choice. I just burst into tears and told them I was sorry.

Again, I don’t remember what was said after that. Mind you, this was over two years ago and I’ve tried my dead level best to forget. Just because I had finally gotten help, it doesn’t mean I was happy about it. Telling meant that all of it was out in the open. I had to talk to other people about my problems. If you’ve ever had to do that, you know how much it sucks. It sucks because for so long you kept everything hidden from the rest of the world and now you can’t do that anymore.

If you had told me two years ago, one year ago, or even six months ago, that I would write a hard, deep look at my own experiences with depression, I would’ve laughed in your face. When I was first diagnosed with depression, I was very ashamed of it and secretive. I remember how for the longest time, I would freak out and my entire body would stiffen if I ever heard any words associated with depression. And I would quickly and discreetly exit the room and go have an panic attack somewhere, worried someone knew about me. I used to think it was the worst thing for people to know about my past. I feared that once someone knew, they would brand “depressed” across my forehead and that would be all they saw when they looked at me.

Nowadays, pretty much everyone knows. And they didn’t find out from somebody else. I told them myself. I don’t see the point in keeping it hidden any longer. But just because I’m more open about it, it doesn’t mean I go around announcing it to everyone I meet. I don’t go: “Hi, I’m a book worm, I love music, I’m a writer, oh and I struggle with depression(and bouts of cutting). Nice to meet you!”. It’s not like that. I don’t offer up the information, but I also don’t withhold it either. If they ask, I’ll be honest with them.

Anyway, point is, I’ve changed. I don’t think about suicide anymore, not since I almost tried OD-ing over two years ago. In total honesty, I still struggle with depression from time to time. For over a year, I took medications for my depression and anxiety. But last December, I stopped and haven’t been back on them since then. I’ve only had two relapses(in depression) since then, which I think is pretty good considering how hard it used to be. I used to not have the energy to get out of bed. When these fits of “blah” come, I just have to ride it out and it’s usually gone in about three or four days and I’m back to my normal self. But I like to isolate myself when those times come because it’s just easier. If it isn’t gone then I tell someone and talk about it, which does the trick.

I have to be careful though. If I’m having trouble surfing the wave and just decide to tip over, then I’m pretty much allowing myself to fall into the dark abyss. And while I don’t want to do that ever, I’ll tell you this: It is so freaking hard not to give in to the temptation. Holy crap is it hard. Some days I have to repeat “Don’t do it. Just ride it out. Go to sleep. Talk to so-and-so. Don’t give in. Don’tdon’tdon’t.” over and over. It’s a battle everyday when I’m going through those times. Luckily, I have a best friend who knows every inch of my brain(she seriously knows me that well) and I can vent to her about anything. Thank God for those kind of best friends, is all I can say! Honestly, I would be lost without mine.

Okay, this is part I’m always bad at- the closing, ending, finishing. Whatever you want to call it, I’m not the best at it. If you read my other depression story, you’ll know I’m bad at writing the ending. I pretty much just wrapped it up in a neat little bow and was all “Yeah I’m better now! And if depression comes my way again, then I’ll kick its butt! Hooray!”. But the truth is, I’m not completely better. It’s like when someone is recovering from anorexia or bulimia. It’s a battle everyday- it’s something they will have to deal with every single day for the rest of their lives. Same goes for depression. No, I’m not depressed, or gloomy, or feeling blue right now. But what about the next time something bad happens to me? It just might push me over the edge of depression. And then I’ll have to pull myself out of that dark abyss. Of course I’ll have help(family, my best friend, and God), but it’ll be extremely hard- it always is. Sometime in my life, I may have to go back on medication to help my brain get right again when I can’t do it myself. I don’t know. That’s the future and I’ll worry about it then. But right now, I’m just going to focus on the here and now. And as of today, I’m doing okay. I hope that’s a better ending than last time. It’s taken me several tries to finish this, but this is my final edit.

There.

Done.

Finished.

The End.