A little story about depression and sleep and how they go so great together.
They don’t at all, actually.
There was so much I wanted to do today, so I set my alarm for 8:30 and went to bed at a reasonable for me hour of about 1am.
I woke up in the dim gray of my bedroom aching.
Aching in my shoulders, my neck, but especially my hips, where I always feel stiff and achey in the morning, even worse than my knees and all the other joints possibly on their way to replacement.
I tossed and turned for a while, wondering what the hell kind of weather we were having that could actually wake me up with joint pain.
I wondered what time it could be. Seven something? Hopefully it was after seven, hopefully my alarm was just about to go off.
But then I just couldn’t take the ache anymore, so I got up to pee and then finally went to look at my alarm, ready to find out whether it was worth it to get back in bed or if I should just make coffee.
It was 1:42pm.
My alarm went off, but it gives up on me after an hour of ringing if I don’t get up to turn it off, and I keep it way across my room for a reason.
I’m lucky if I get six hours of sleep a night.
Guess you needed it, my mom said when I finally answered her texts hours after she sent them.
No, I didn’t need it.
This is just one of the cool ways my depression manifests itself — I sleep even when I don’t want to, for so much longer than I ever want to.
Maybe it’s my body’s own safe escape mechanism for life.
Either way, I’ll take it over some alternatives.
I wonder too, if I am going to look back on these posts and regret them — I am not one to talk about my depression.
In fact, I go out of my way to avoid talking about my mental health in social situations, unless I’m uncontrollably emoting and may not have a choice.
But the older I get, and the more this doesn’t resolve itself for me like it seems to do so for other people, the more I am tired of pretending that this isn’t a part of my life that I really have to deal with.
I mean, if your friend had cancer, you would treat them like they had a disease that was doing its best to kill them.
Depression is a disease that does its best to kill people, but it’s also a disease that a lot of people look at as a moral failing, or just something you need to get over, or well why do you keep thinking these things?
If I told someone I had pancreatic cancer, or diabetes, or even fucking gluten intolerance, that person might, if they cared about me, go out of their way to see what that meant for my life and maybe try to educate themselves so they could be supportive.
I’ve gone too long now feeling like certain people in my life aren’t willing to dig deeper for me, because they think I should just buck up and dig myself out.
This is part of it, and I am trying.