Numb: The Scariest Place

Elise Buchheit
Jul 21, 2017 · 4 min read

Trigger Warning: Depression & Suicide/Suicidal Thoughts

I spent the morning listening to a bunch of Linkin Park songs on YouTube. In 3 minutes and 6 seconds I am transported back to my 13 year old bedroom, screaming along to Numb. For as long as it has existed, music has been a universal emotional outlet. Linkin Park wasn’t my favorite band, but the Meteora album was one I frequently turned to when I needed to scream but couldn’t find the words on my own. It was a kind of therapy really.

I was so sad to hear that Chester Bennington, lead singer of Linkin Park, died from his depression yesterday. And I understand. Unfortunately, I totally understand. Even as a 13 year old singing in my bedroom, I had an inkling into what he felt, the battles he fought.

People experience depression in different ways and even differently over the course of their lives. Most people probably cannot tell when I am going through a phase of depression. My compartmentalization game is out of this world. At times my depression has manifested itself in total disregard for all activities, blowing off friends right and left. Other times it has caused me to make drastic changes to my appearance or life plan. But the scariest place my depression has ever taken me was to a state of total numbness.

It was the summer after college and I was working in a new city, living with new people who I didn’t know well, and anticipating the start of my dream career in a couple months’ time. I was rocking my summer job, getting plugged in to a church community, and even briefly dated someone who I’d had an eye on for years. At the end of the summer, we voted on co-worker superlatives and I was given an award for “Most Likely to Come to Work and Punch it in the Face.”

But I could barely convince myself to make it to the barbecue where the awards were given out. I could barely convince myself to do anything other than lay in bed watching YouTube videos and Friday Night Lights. I was the absolute definition of “going through the motions.” I experienced no joy, I felt no excitement or anticipation. I felt hollow. The only desire I felt during that time was a wish that I could just go to sleep. I wasn’t as concerned with waking up.

And then, like the Tell-Tale Heart, I remembered there were some pills in the plastic medicine container in my closet. I don’t remember what they were or what damage they could have done, but the thought appeared with a flash and lingered.

There is a scene in Friday Night Lights where Julie runs her car into a tree because she doesn’t want to go back to school and her own issues, but she can’t find the words to express that she isn’t okay. I also blew up my life a bit in a move of desperation. Some part of me recognized the danger I was in and found the reserve necessary to pull the wheel, crash the vehicle, and let the pieces fall where they may. So I quit everything and moved home.

What immediately followed was not joy or happiness, it was embarrassment, deeper depression, and fear. But making the choice to recognize and admit that I was not okay was absolutely the best decision I’ve ever made.

And eventually it got a little better. The medication that made things worse at first actually started working. And where before I could barely convince myself to interact with the world, all of a sudden I had friends, making me get on skype with them from the comfort of my own bed. I had “failed” at something in life and it was okay. I was okay.

Of course, what I’ve discovered in my depression history is that asking for help is not a singular moment. It is something you have to be willing to do over and over again. Help has looked different depending on my health needs, but each time I talk about my mental health struggles or share my history, the burden gets lighter. I accept that I will always have anxiety and depression, it is in a way part of who I am. But I know what it means to slip into the numbness and I know that not caring about anything is the scariest place to be.

It matters. You matter. The only thing that doesn’t matter is how “together” you appear or how you will be perceived for admitting you need help. Because once your health improves, you will discover that asking for help makes you strong. It makes you brave.

If you feel depression pulling you under, know that you are not alone and that this doesn’t have to be your life. Talk to me, a friend, or call 1–800–273–8255. If you can’t talk about it yet, consider starting with SuperBetter or a mental health app.

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