Depression is a Lying Bastard
The Bloggess said it best. Depression is a lying bastard.
I’ve found myself struggling with another “episode” lately. It started a couple weeks ago – sneaking up on me when I wasn’t paying attention. I don’t think you’d really notice by looking at me. I’m still fully functional.
But those close to me did start thinking I was acting a little off. I was being weird(er).
Because the lie depression tells me is that I’m not good enough. Not good enough to be loved. Not good enough at my job. Not good enough to be a mother. Not good enough as a wife. Not good enough to ever make it as a writer.
Depression is a lying bastard.
I’ve often felt judged by the worth of my work. That if only I could just be a little better…everything would be ok.
I’ve already told the world this disease runs in my family. So I’m not going to be ashamed. I’m fighting. Some days the fight is harder than others.
This isn’t something that just happened pop up and say hello this week. This is not the result of a single event. If only it was that simple. Because depression knows. If it takes you by surprise, you’ll be shocked into a fight or flight reaction and go all bad-ass ninja on its ass. Instead it sneaks up behind you. Enveloping you in a warm embrace, tightening its stranglehold around you with every breath.
I fear abandonment. I fear isolation. I fear rejection. I fear the white flag.
But I know how this game goes. Depression – if you want a game of capture the flag, I’m in. And you’re going down. See, I’ve got a team. I’ve got a team of friends who love me. They’re the ones who answer loudly when you say, “Who cares?”
And I know I’m not alone. I know there are others out there playing this game. Know you are not alone. Even when we appear to have our happy face.
Someone may tell you they’re struggling. Understand that’s a good thing. Because it means they’re fighting. Depression is not a personality flaw. It is a disease. And it’s treatable.
Life is not rainbows and unicorns. Sad things happen. Bad things happen. But these do not cause depression. And I, for one, will not let them define me. I’m calling you out. I know what you’re trying to do to me. So I’m not staying silent.
Your move, you lying little bastard. Your move.
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By Rita Arens
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