art, i guess

27/01/18

I am Depressed.

I know this because of an ironically colourful chart sent to me two days ago, stating it was probable I was suffering from major depression.

I had to Google what the major part meant. Was there such a thing as minor depression? I felt depression ought to be in minor- the key, that is. Anyway. The major, clinical part represents the fact that I am not depressed because of grief, or trauma, but as a result of Mental Illness.

I wonder if this is true. Does my brain really not have the decency to produce a basic, comfortable amount of serotonin? Bummer.

But I had never thought of myself as a Person Who Was Depressed. Those words were heavy, and seemed attention seeking. They belonged to skinny teenagers who wore black hoodies and posted their scars on Instagram. They belonged to tired out fifty year olds who survived on cups of tea and spoke in a slow, sad, drawl. They had never belonged to me.

And don't get me wrong- I didn't- I don't- want them to.

However.

I was going to write something here about how I thought I was a generally sunny, bubbly person until I realised that simply wasn't true. Maybe I could be, sometimes, but I'm not really someone who drives the conversation in groups. I don't have many great one-liners, and not many witty comebacks, either. Generally, though, I'm a cynic, albeit a kind-hearted one.

The thought of being Depressed brings flickering memories of a crying twelve year old, taking an online depression test, hitting herself in the bathroom because she had no friends. Or a sobbing fourteen year old, googling suicide support websites, scared of her own desperate brain. Or all the times that girl stared out of her bedroom window and fantasised about how easy it would be to just jump (it wouldn't be. I would probably find it hard to fit through).

It brings the conversation I had five and a half hours ago-

Shaky words. "I'm two months clean."

And a sort of smile, from him. "Well done."

And then – "I don't want to talk about this."

I also know I am Depressed because I have been lying on my bed for what my clock tells me is two hours but has felt like two minutes, scrolling through Instagram, listening to Harry fucking Styles and feeling nothing.

Correction. Feeling something. Something that sits in your chest and drags you into a state of V O I D .

(Although it doesn't always feel that dramatic).

I have been feeling like this on and off, for a very long time. Sometimes, I am completely fine- but too often, I feel like this. It's like piles, or homework- the longer you leave it, the worse it slowly seems to get. 

So maybe I am Depressed. But perhaps... this is a good thing. Because I have been feeling Depressed, or a version of Depressed for too long now. Because now that I can say it, they can say it too.

Because I want to start living again.

And if a stupid, ironic, colourful page of fucking test results mean I can get the help I need to get rid of the V O I D feeling, then bring it on.