A Soliloquy For My Depression

Kelly L Hayes
Jul 25, 2017 · 4 min read
Scene from a better day

I spent a lot of time over the last few years deciding whether or not I would write and share this. As with most things in my life, there was plenty of waffling about if it was anyone’s business or if being vulnerable in the social sphere was the best way of staying true to myself. Ultimately, here I am having chosen the latter.

I am depressed.

It sucks.

For all of the think pieces about depression floating around, I’m still surprised at the amount of misinformation out there. No, I am not just sad about something and likely to get over it in a few days. No, I don’t spend my days crying in the dark listening to Elliott Smith — though I have done this and it has brought me a significant amount of joy. No, I am not always hovering on the edge of suicide. Mostly I feel like an immovable, resentful, and anxious lump that is trapped by her own inability to function outside of absolute necessity.

I’ve felt this coming and going in varying degrees for over half my life. I knew what it was at 14 and I know what it is at 31. It’s the voice in my head that says, “this is all your fault,” no matter the info to the contrary. It’s the part of me that snaps at customers because I’m feeling overwhelmed in the interaction. It’s the urge to convince everyone I’m right so I stop feeling so wrong. It’s the need to hide and miss work because I’m too afraid to face the world. It’s the panic attack building in my chest and making my arms go numb while I type these truths I desperately want to ignore.

Scene from a better day

I’ve watched myself become a shitty friend, partner, & colleague the same way someone watches their phone die at 1 am before they can find a bar that will let them plug it in. Certain days I wake up feeling great and certain people can recharge this empty battery for a bit, but it never really seems to last long before I’m completely drained again. Often, I desperately want to be around the people I love but find myself immobile when the time comes. I flake. I feel like shit about it. Recharge. Repeat.

It is never instant. I don’t just wake up one morning suddenly feeling like this. It is always slow motion as if I was being pulled beneath waves while the surface slipped away. All the time, I think I am still floating until my lungs are filled with water. Some days are worse than others. Some days are better. Most feel exactly the same, which is to say that they feel like nothing. It’s a weird space to be in and typically I am thinking about being at home with my dog where it’s quiet and I don’t have to think so much or pretend that I am not falling apart. *Plays Radiohead — No Surprises*

All of that being said, I am going to be fine. This isn’t 1/3 of the worst I’ve ever felt. This isn’t even the worst I’ve felt in the last decade. I lost my Dad to a sudden, aggressive cancer, was sexually assaulted by a stranger in a bar bathroom far away from home, was emotionally abused by a partner for years, quit a job I incorrectly thought held my future, worked two more that sucked the life out of me like bone marrow, and I wanted to die in a tangible, real way. I am still here and not going anywhere because this isn’t the end of my story. I refuse to let this be the end of my story.

Scene from a better day

This post is a reminder for me and a plea for patience from the people around me. I’m getting the help I need and remembering to breathe which requires all of my attention at the moment. I beg forgiveness if I seem distant, angry, and cold. Mostly, I’m just a scared, numb woman that is trying to be herself and not the person her depression tells her she is. This is not the person I am going to become and I know she’s going to be very excited to see you.

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