There's a series of TV ads that suggests you talk to people about how you're feeling when things are 'bad'. To talk, and keep talking, until people recognize that what you're really saying is: 'help'.
The ads are right. Talking about how you feel is amazingly helpful. What the ads don't say is that even when you've been diagnosed, and are getting professional assistance - you STILL NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT.
When I first started talking to people about it, I had to get used to how much people want to help. My family and friends wanted to do something, be able to show their support, prove to me that they cared. I still struggle with it. The Depression tries, every time, to convince me they're just saying the words, that these people don't really mean it.
Depression lies.
I finally realized that what I wanted out of 'talking about it', was JUST to talk about it. Not to open up a discussion, but to have someone witness the words coming out of my mouth. The words that formed how I felt. It is incredibly powerful to hear them out loud, and in hearing them, realize how strongly Depression has twisted my thinking. To hear how I project how I feel about myself, into how I think other people see me. To hear how horrible I am to myself. To finally see how much stuff I pile up in my head, stuff too traumatic to think about.
Depression is a fun-house mirror.
Depression distorts how I hear conversations, and turns the simplest of interactions, into disdainful mockery of everything I am. Depression makes all the positive things in my life, shrink into nonsensical irrelevance, and highlights all of the (I've been told - mostly imaginary) negative things to a monstrous degree. Every single thing in my head looks different when Depression is playing in there. It warps memories, giving Depression brutal ammunition to bully me with. Compliments of any kind? my Depression rub it's hands together with glee - They don't mean it.
Depression is a bully.
Depression has eroded my self belief to a point where I don't think I'm talented at anything. To defeat the bully I have to stand up to it, and beat it. So far, the best I'm managing to do is to make it leave me alone for a while.
Depression has allies.
Allies? Yup. Allies. It got together early on with my circadian rhythm, and they made a pact to ensure that when Depression was marching, I'd get no rest. Then Depression made a deal with my digestive system, so now Depression gets advance notice of when it's not going to function properly, and can arm itself and take advantage of my weaknesses. Most devastatingly of all, it long ago took my sex drive prisoner; it lies trapped, unwilling and unable, to take part in my battles - in the incalculably rare instance someone gets through the front lines, there's no assistance from within.
So here I am. Trapped in a POW camp of my own making. Walls made of fun house mirrors, with lying, bullying, brainwashing statements piped in every hour of the day.
Most horribly of all?
The key is somewhere in here with me, and it's up to me to find it.
Derri.
The ads are right. Talking about how you feel is amazingly helpful. What the ads don't say is that even when you've been diagnosed, and are getting professional assistance - you STILL NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT.
When I first started talking to people about it, I had to get used to how much people want to help. My family and friends wanted to do something, be able to show their support, prove to me that they cared. I still struggle with it. The Depression tries, every time, to convince me they're just saying the words, that these people don't really mean it.
Depression lies.
I finally realized that what I wanted out of 'talking about it', was JUST to talk about it. Not to open up a discussion, but to have someone witness the words coming out of my mouth. The words that formed how I felt. It is incredibly powerful to hear them out loud, and in hearing them, realize how strongly Depression has twisted my thinking. To hear how I project how I feel about myself, into how I think other people see me. To hear how horrible I am to myself. To finally see how much stuff I pile up in my head, stuff too traumatic to think about.
Depression is a fun-house mirror.
Depression distorts how I hear conversations, and turns the simplest of interactions, into disdainful mockery of everything I am. Depression makes all the positive things in my life, shrink into nonsensical irrelevance, and highlights all of the (I've been told - mostly imaginary) negative things to a monstrous degree. Every single thing in my head looks different when Depression is playing in there. It warps memories, giving Depression brutal ammunition to bully me with. Compliments of any kind? my Depression rub it's hands together with glee - They don't mean it.
Depression is a bully.
Depression has eroded my self belief to a point where I don't think I'm talented at anything. To defeat the bully I have to stand up to it, and beat it. So far, the best I'm managing to do is to make it leave me alone for a while.
Depression has allies.
Allies? Yup. Allies. It got together early on with my circadian rhythm, and they made a pact to ensure that when Depression was marching, I'd get no rest. Then Depression made a deal with my digestive system, so now Depression gets advance notice of when it's not going to function properly, and can arm itself and take advantage of my weaknesses. Most devastatingly of all, it long ago took my sex drive prisoner; it lies trapped, unwilling and unable, to take part in my battles - in the incalculably rare instance someone gets through the front lines, there's no assistance from within.
So here I am. Trapped in a POW camp of my own making. Walls made of fun house mirrors, with lying, bullying, brainwashing statements piped in every hour of the day.
Most horribly of all?
The key is somewhere in here with me, and it's up to me to find it.
Derri.
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