What it’s like living with High-Functioning Depression.

Depression on it’s own is hard. Very very hard.
It’s a brutal, savage disease that tears your soul out from the inside. And it’s widespread. Millions of Americans and people from all around the world suffer from it.
But there’s a version of depression that doesn’t get talked about nearly as much.
High-functioning.
Over the years, it’s gone by a few different names (Dysthymia, Persistent Depressive Disorder), but they usually refer to the same thing.
A depression that has little to no outward symptoms or consequences, but still negatively affects a person’s mind, thought process and quality of life.
I’ve probably had it for at least 3 years. But I’ve only consulted a psychiatrist earlier this year. And only recently hit the right medications.
Why?
I thought I was fine all this time.
I was near the top of my class. I had amazing grades.
I was energetic enough for most activities.
I was a fair conversationalist (despite some shyness).
I was loved by teachers and by my peers.
And yet… I was dying inside.
During that awful period, I’d sit inside my room and let my negative emotions ferment.
I’d cry for no apparent reason.
I thought about suicide every other week. My mind was poisoned with destructive thoughts, bitter self-loathing and pain.
I wanted so desperately to talk to someone.
But every time I’d go online, I saw the same things: the symptoms of major depression — most of which I didn’t have.
I wasn’t lethargic. My grades didn’t drop. I could still function pretty much as well as I normally could.
So I thought I was fine.
In the end though, my personal life turned turbulent and shortly afterwards, I was hit with a spell of major depression, which, combined with the mental illnesses I already had, made my life an absolute hell.
So in the August of 2017, I seriously tried to kill myself. The preparations were made, the noose was tied and it should’ve been over…
What happened that day is a story for another time, but the important part was that I survived.
After countless visits to different psychiatrists, I finally settled on a medication that could suppress the dark thoughts of my continued HF depression.
And, thankfully, my major depression spell is over.
But I wished I had known I wasn’t normal earlier.
I wish people wouldn’t stereotype all depression as being lethargic/moody/having falling grades, etc.
Because not all depression is the same.
High-functioning depression is a tragedy — one that needs to be discussed more.
