Repeat after me: Depression is not a choice.
I cringed after reading most of these…probably ‘cause I’ve heard them at one point or another. No, someone shouldn’t feel like they need to walk on eggshells in terms of what they say to someone who is depressed, but that person also doesn’t need to be an asshole. Be considerate.
I’m doing a pretty rotten job of saving myself. Supposed to be my own savior, right? Well, I’m also my worst enemy, and the enemy’s got some pretty bomb weaponry right now, and I’m being shot into the ground.
At least in reading Madness, even though I am not bipolar, based on Marya’s experiences, I don’t feel as if I’m completely lazy or stupid for feeling like I physically cannot accomplish schoolwork some rare days - as if doing so would kill me - because of my depression. Some days I don’t want to get out of bed or feel as if I can’t, or if I attempt schoolwork, I will open my laptop and only be able to stare at the screen with an apathetic expression. And then there are the days I don’t even want to get out of bed to go on Tumblr, let alone schoolwork. I’ll eat then sleep then eat like a good girl then sleep, but I’ll have no desire to do anything else. Those are really bad days.
"1 in 5 of people diagnosed with AN will die prematurely due to complications of the disease (including suicide)."
This statistic makes me want to sob and bang my head against the wall and repeat a million times over. It hurts so much. I don’t want my friends to die. Please keep fighting.
It is a madhouse I run
And I laugh as if I’m having fun;
I can’t see through these concrete walls,
I place myself in a room with no door
Yet – in a shabby state of desperation –
I try to claw my way out.
(Dreadful laughter accompanies this madness in my head like a melody) and
I wait for a wretchedly long time, you see;
I have woe stitched on my sleeve.
If you’ve come to seek a hollow soul
I dare you try to grab me by my neck and leave, for
I fight until my eyes are bursting from their ties
And the delicate blood vessels blow;
I cry and shriek with no reprieve
until I can care
to bear my own shame.
Don’t you try to strike me merely because my barricade is low;
I’ve waited restlessly, a disturbingly long time for this love –
This love that is meant for me.
Sharp Objects, Gillian Flynn
(*Because the original text holds italics during the speaking parts, I inserted the apostrophes to lessen the confusion. Same deal for why I formatted it differently)
I haven’t been able to participate in anything theater or even sung much lately and it’s making me feel a bit depressed. More than a bit, maybe. Theater’s been such a big part of my life for eight years, and singing for even longer. The lack of it right now is just a big slap in the face reminding me that I was never good enough for it to play a larger role as I grow up. Never a good enough singer, actress, and God knows I was never going to be a dancer.
My throat is sore, I’m listening to Next to Normal, and I feel like I’ve been off meds for a week when….well, I’ve been trying to take every dose. Fun fun fun.
I understand the logic of those who pencil out others’ death-wishes in favor of “what they really mean”, which is to “live a better life”.
I have a good life. I have a goddamn great life. But I’m not excited. I’m not looking forward to anything. I don’t look forward to what could be. To anything without a heartbeat, I’m pretty apathetic right now. I think of killing myself: knives, pills - both of which I have in the house. But the faces of my closest friends and family members hack that idea to Hell, because I don’t want to disappoint them to that degree. I could be conceited and say that I feel I’ve probably disappointed every human I’ve ever come in contact with. Why would that be conceited? Not everyone cares. They don’t care, the world goes ‘round, and that’s acceptable. That’s life.
I’m not going to kill myself any time soon. I’m not planning on it, anyway. Whether anorexia will slowly (and man, do I mean slowly) bring me to that point in the future, I don’t know. I can’t get myself to eat enough and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m tired of food, and I’m tired of treatment talk. It’s not happening. My mom’s worried and it makes me sad, but it’s also unnecessary.
So, you see, it wouldn’t matter if I had a better life. The problem is my mind, how it works, and how it can’t find happiness in most things that are supposed to be wonderful. I love my friends, I love my family…and for now, that’s all that matters to me. That being said, don’t feel like a bitch if you want to stop talking to me. I wouldn’t put on that kind of pressure. That would be cruel.
Just go live life. And uh, forget about this post if you want. I don’t really care, and if you don’t either, then…well, good for you. Ze End.
— Her: A Memoir, Christa Parravani
Gah, Samantha Barks was given the opportunity to meet Idina Menzel when she was 17 years old on ‘I’d Do Anything’. Fucking lucky duck, and I don’t mean that in a harsh way to anyone in particular except myself.TWICE, I’ve had the opportunity to at least see Idina Menzel in concert. The first time was in December 2010. I was admitted into a hospital against my will. My mom and sister went without me.
The second time I’d planned early last year, stupidly letting myself get excited for the opportunity to see her again. Even when I was admitted into the Center, I was told it might just be for a month, so I didn’t let myself get upset until the date of the concert had passed.
And I used to have this Japanese kanji necklace, you see? It read ‘hope’. I used to think that if I saw Idina one day, I would do what I could to give it to her because of the hope she gave to me - and since she has a single titled ‘Hope’.
What’s the use in getting excited about anything? Something always seems to manage to get in the way, and unfortunately, for me it seems that it’s only one thing that’s acting as the wretched blockade.
Though it probably wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, I decided to read through one of the journals I wrote in when I was in Utah, and I came across something that I hadn’t really thought of in a while, and it made me really sad. For a social studies field trip, those of us that had earned the privilege to go outings, went to see Lincoln in theaters. I remember that I cried twice: the first time after I saw the preview for Les Miserables because I knew I probably wasn’t going to be out in time to see it in theaters with my musical-pal/sister; the second time I cried was during the movie, not because of the actual movie, but because I remembered that I was going to have to go back to the Center afterwards.
It felt so normal being out of the Center that I almost forgot why I was in Utah in the first place. I whispered to one of my friends how much it sucked that we had to go back. It was hard going on outings and having a good time with the reminder that we were going to go back into a locked building after. (Though sometimes being out in a social environment was stressful, making anxiety skyrocket and such.)
I cried because I felt so trapped, and I knew I was under others’ control. And I’m a minor, so there’s nothing I could have done about it. That’s a plus of turning 18 this year, though I’d rather just, like, not.
Have you imagined that one of your suicidal friends actually killed themselves and started crying? This shouldn’t happen to me as much as it does.