pedestrianportland

Depression saps your mental and emotional strength. There is still a rational part of you ticking away, reminding you of everything that has to get done. But instead, you shrug it off and ask, what does it matter? You think, I’ll do it when I feel better. I’ll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll feel good enough. But somehow that time does not appear.

You think, I want a better job. But you cannot even start shopping around online. You will not want to look up alternative incomes. You just do not care about what other education you might need. Later, you think, I’ll do it all later. I will be better then. It won’t be so overwhelming then.

I cannot offer a miracle cure. Pills do not always help- in fact, the first pill you take often does not work. I gave up on them a long time ago. Instead, I push myself. I say, no more later. I have to do this now. I hate it, I do not want to, but I have to. This is part of taking care of myself. If I can take care of myself, I can feel better. I can feel in control.

I do not always succeed. Some things are easier to make myself do than others. Getting out of bed is hard, because depression sucks out my will to go forward. But I keep pushing. I have to get up. If I get up and do what needs to be done, then I can can zone out on the computer. If I put the children down for a nap, I can have one myself. But until then, I have to keep going.

The first time I realized I had depression, I scared myself. I was so angry, so upset, so beaten down, I could not stop hitting myself. Finally, I said to myself, this is not right. I need help. So I went to my foster parents, and said, “I’m scared. I want to hurt myself and it scares me.” They called the suicide hotline. I talked to someone who tried to soothe me, and asked if I could go through the night without hurting myself.

This was the moment of truth. I could have lied. I could have told her I felt all better, thank you, and gone right back into my room and kept hurting myself. I could have run away from the shame of having no control over my body and mind. But I did not really want to keep being so scared, so hurt, so alone. So I said, “I don’t think so. I need help.”

Going to the clinic was not pleasant. The nurses and doctors did not hold my hand. They did not say, “We can make you all better.” I was made to fill out a questionairre. Then I was given a check-up, talked to about the nature of my problem, then sent into a room by myself. It had nothing but a bed with a pink thermal blanket. I sat on the floor.

They sent me to Providence. I could not even call home for two days, or have vistors. There were groups. We talked about what happened to us, and why we were there. Talking about my past made it feel a little easier. Everything was out there; everyone knew a secret part of me. I did not know before then that it was okay to share. It still makes me cry to think I was so ashamed of what other people had done to me, and so ashamed of being unable to control my reaction.

And that was the hardest part. I did not need to be ashamed to need help. I did not need to be afraid of what other people would think, because they could understand. No one understands you completely, but they do understand the situation: the pain, the fear, and even the apathy. In this, you do not have to feel alone.

We did a lot of things there in the hospital. We discussed drug use, alcohol, and sex. We had individual talks with the therapists. There was an art time, a poetry time, and meal time. And we even had time to play board games with each other, watch movies and just hang out before bedtime. It was not all sunshine and roses, but each day you could see your progress on the board along with everyone else’s. You could think to yourself, maybe I can get better.

I got better for a while. Then I had to go back. I got so numb, I just did not care. The same routine, only this time they told me I needed medication. So I took it. It made me angry, and I did not feel happy. I had trouble sleeping. So the psychiatrist switched my medication for depression, and gave me something to help me sleep. I felt nothing- no sorrow, no joy. We tried another, and I started to see things. I threw my pills away and gave up on medication.

I remember laying on my floor, watching the sun coming through the window. And I thought, that is so beautiful without even trying. It is so REAL. Why do I have to be artificial? Can I do this myself? So I tried. And it had been a rocky road. But I am still here.

I cry a lot. And I enjoy the tears. Because I know that I can recover. I have suicidal thoughts. So I walk them off. For hours and hours. I try to exercise more, because it makes me feel better and I sleep well. I worry about everything, so I write a list of all the things I need to do- and then ignore it. Sometimes I fake being happy. And sometimes when I am faking it, I become happy.

It is so funny how I never enjoyed having emotions the way I do now. When I get mad, a part of me is thinking about how I can get angry now. I find a way to vent my feelings, let them out. Because hiding them in myself just makes it all so much worse for me. I laugh when I feel like it, and I talk far too loud and far too long. I won’t hold it all in ever again. I can take that first step over and over now.

The most touching thing that came of my first hospital stay was one of the girls gave me some clothes. I still have the pjs. They are a print with two peas in a pod over and over. I think to myself when I put them on, I am not alone. Someone cares about me. Enough to think of me, even after she had left and I was nothing to her but a memory of her stay.