The Relentless Bully Returns

Depression is a bully that lives inside your head.  I've struggled with depression my whole life.  For as long as I could remember it having a name, it has taken up residence in my brain.  It has gone on holiday at times and as a result it has given me a vacation from its hold over me. But it always returns.

I suppose the difference is that I'm a pretty high-functioning sufferer.  I CAN get out of bed.  There was a time I couldn't, but I do it pretty regularly now.  I CAN motivate myself to work, because as a high-functioning sufferer, I also have a very high, almost over-active sense of responsibility.  I CAN sit with "friends" and smile, and laugh and pretend nothing is wrong because high-functioning sufferers are very good actors. They also feel they aren't deserving of attention and allow those in their circle to claim attention for themselves.

One thing that I've come to realize over time is that once the ball begins rolling, it gathers momentum.  Small things become larger, situations that have simple explanations become mind-bogglingly baffling.  And the ball becomes larger and larger until it cannot be controlled.  I'm heading that way.  And I'm scared.  Right now, where I am, I feel I have no friends, no one to talk to, and as the disease is wont to do, it tells me constantly that no one cares.  Except my dog.

Funny thing is, I'm constantly worried about other people.  I constantly reach out to make sure people are ok. But the voices in my head tell me that those same people care nothing about me.  I'm a blip.  A red shirt on Star Trek. An inconsequential seat-holder.  Lately, I feel like I've been dealt some really difficult blows.  A revelation of a long-held belief by someone else has leveled me.  The passing of a friend's loved one has intensified my brain's testimony of my lack of self-worth.  The perceived lack of attention by those I hold dear who, if I made it known my heart hurts, would then begin the dissertation of why my feelings are silly, unworthy, or how I need to move on and then stand on their soapbox of philosophical rightness to tell me how that's done.  When really, just an ear and a hug would do.  An injury that has kept me from doing something I have desired forever is exacerbating an already difficult situation.

Yet, through all of this, I still function.  I still get out of bed.  I still check on people.  I still reach out. I still smile.  I still do things to make other people feel important and worthy and loved. And still, I'm dying inside.

Depression is a bully that lives inside your head and lies to you.