Please Let Depression Know My Life is Sweet as Hell
I’m one of the lucky ones.
I’m married to a really great, handsome man, I have a cute dog, I live in a wonderful apartment that I can afford and eat food that I can afford and do things that I can afford. I’ve done a lot of things that I’ve wanted, all my little dreams keep coming true, like studying improv in Los Angeles, writing my unpublished novels, cultivating friends who are powerful and smart and talented who love and support me.
For a little, quiet life, it’s perfect.
Enter depression and anxiety.
I didn’t always have these fun little mental illnesses, or perhaps I did, but it took adulthood to help me figure it out. I found myself panicked about little things, there were months when I didn’t want to get out of bed, there were days when going to the grocery store was Too Much. I went to the ER so many times, until finally, one doctor watched me cry while I gave my symptoms and asked if I’d ever been treated for anxiety or depression.
So anxiety and depression became an actual, real thing in my life.
These two work in tandem to trick me. Anxiety tricks me into thinking everything is going to turn to shit and depression swoops in to help remind me that it doesn’t even matter anyway! Anxiety has me worry about every little thing, from how I can’t be a good wife because I can’t cook to worrying about having enough time to write.
The worrying fills me up until it reaches an apex and then explodes, giving depression its cue to take over. Anxiety is like depression’s really good wingman.
“That sure is a lot of stuff to worry about,” Depression says. “You’re probably worried, because you could never actually be a good wife, you could never actually finish a novel because you’re a failure. Let me help you. There’s a bed over there and here’s all this doubt. Let’s just sit in the bed and wallow in it. Here’s a list of all the reasons why you don’t matter, why your life is meaningless, and why you should just stay in bed with me. Let’s cuddle.”
Depression is suave like that. He’s (we all know depression is a man, right?) smart, he knows how to seduce me. He’s also comforting. Can you believe I find comfort in hating myself? Me either, brains are nuts.
But wait! Remember, my life is great! It really, truly is. Sitting here and writing this, I can tell you it is monumental in its greatness. I’m never alone, I am surrounded by friends and family that support me, my little home is full of so much love it is bursting at the seams.
So why fall down a spiral of panic? Why even worry if there’s, really, nothing to worry about? Why let depression seduce me when I have so many other, better things to be seduced by?
You know the answer, right? It’s an illness.
This isn’t news, I hope. I hope you know that mental illness is a true illness and not something that can be solved by a couple lifestyle changes and will just leave. Even medicine doesn’t prevent it entirely, just like diabetes or asthma. It will live inside me forever, I will treat it forever. My life will continue to be so awesome and amazing and I’ll continue to be thankful for it, but depression will seduce me as he always does. The sexy bastard.
My life is good, I’m so lucky, I’m the most fortunate little shit on this planet, but try telling anxiety and depression that.
Please… will you?
Awesome, just forward this to depression and let him know I don’t wanna get anymore of his texts. Say it really casual, like it doesn’t matter to me at all what he thinks of me. Thanks!