I woke up this morning feeling like a fucking fraud. I could feel my mask back on. That’s how I like to refer to hiding my depression, wearing a mask. I don’t honestly know if I’ve been depressed my entire life. There are days where it’s easy to believe that I was since I spent a lot of time alone as a kid and even now I still love to be alone. I love it to a very unhealthy degree, like to the point that I have horrible nights and some days, where I would be willing to cut the cord with everyone in the world and just sit in my room and fester and wallow in my crap. Because that is where I feel like myself? I’m not even sure if that’s true. I say or write these things and I feel so true when I say them, but when I go back I wonder “Am I lying? This is even a fraction of the truth?” Some days I don’t even know. I don’t know what my truth is. I don’t know anything other than the comfort of my depression, and the overwhelming sensations of it, where I don’t have to think. I just feel sad, and hate myself.
Brain goes off, and depression slips in.
It’s not healthy, and I know this. I’ve been in therapy for half my life. I’ve been on anti depressants 5 or 6 times since then, some working and some failing. I wonder if I kept them from working. Like my brain chemistry morphed around it, so that I could still take the pills and continue to be so fucking depressed. I didn’t take my doses everyday, and didn’t give half of those times the proper chance to take. When I did, the depression dulled to a point where I could be somewhat functional, but I couldn’t really feel much other than a slight indifference to the world. I never liked taking them, but I don’t think that’s the point, you’re not supposed to enjoy taking them. They’re not Viagra where you get something fun out of the deal. We get functional, to a point. I suppose you could label that as fun if you really wanted to, but I can’t understand why you would. I’ve taken sleeping pills on and off since I was a teenager. I’ve been on Xanax or Klonopin everyday since I was 19, and the panic attacks came barreling in and only crippled any functioning part of me. I keep myself drowned in the depression and those panic attacks. I know that the depression has made my jaw tense up to the point where I have TMJ, (although my doctors were insistent that it was due to having both jaws cut and moved. My fucking bionic jaw.) but I know that part of it is my tensing up. I get worked up and will literally feel myself tense up to the point where I’m almost scared I would stay that way. Like I made a stupid face at my siblings and then my face stuck that way. I feel like I’m walking around with that stupid face. So I wear the mask to cover it up.
It’s not that I’m disingenuous, that I’m not interested in other people or care about them. But my brain tells me to cover up my crazy, to hide that broken person I am from other people because they will run away screaming from the monster that lives inside me. It just seemed to be the answer to not be readable. To hide the stuff inside because then I don’t have to worry about being labeled depressed. There is a lot of stigma attached to it, even in this day and age where people are so quick to think they have it because they have a bad day. And maybe they do. People don’t talk about it openly. From my experience it’s still pretty taboo, which I can see from the looks I get from people when I tell them part of my story. Ranging from the looks of pity to the looks of disgust. I’ve had a few of those. The “Oh that’s what you really are.” I never saw those people again. I give myself that look enough times. Most of the time, I hate looking in the mirror, because then I know I can’t really hide behind that mask. I know what lies beneath, and there have been moments where it’s absolutely terrifying, because I know that if I let my guard down for a minute, it could overtake everything and I fear that I would never return.
See even that, I know there is some truth to it, but I think I stumble around in the dark for ways to explain how I feel. I feel like like such a fraud sitting here and writing about my experiences, not because they aren’t happening, or because they aren’t real, but because I still don’t think that I deserve to be heard. I’ll share my writing with people, and they’ll like it and tell me how they can relate to it and in that moment it’s great. It’s an amazing feeling to be told that what you think you’re shit it, someone else thinks you’re great at. That external reassurance can be a good thing sometimes, to get a boost from someone who sees you so differently than you see yourself. Often times what you see and what they see are day and night, the truth is somewhere in between. But that reassurance is an addicting thing. I find myself scouring my Facebook page and my blog, checking the stats and seeing who’s commented on it, and I realize how stupid I’m being. It’s an addiction I have. I want to see that people see me. That they read my words and they hear my voice. Because sometimes then I can say to myself that you do exist. That you are a real person that can survive outside of your depression cocoon. But that thought relies almost solely on what others say, which is something I need to realize can feed you for a moment, but it’s not a way to sustain yourself. You have to be able to sustain yourself. I think that requires self-love and confidence. Two of the many things I don’t feel competent in. I feel like I missed those lectures.
I sit here and feel so narcissistic writing about my issues. I worry that the Narcissism that runs through my family is coming out in me, and again look for others to tell me that it’s not. Just like I worry that I could fall into the bottle like my family. Those cycles that could very easily continue, and I want so badly to not be that. But I worry that I’m not as strong as I feel sometimes, that I’m really too weak, that I’ll cave and be just like my dad. I’ve heard directly from his mouth, that I’m “just like him.” Which made me want to vomit. He is a complex man, and we have a complex relationship. I’m currently the only child of his three that talks to him on a regular basis and I feel like I’m doing it because I’m too weak to walk away. Because he’s my dad. I have plenty of reasons to walk away, and to tell him to go fuck himself. He has been some semblance of kind to me, then crueler than anyone else I’ve ever met, and so dishonest and disinterested, that again it makes me want to vomit. I have spent my life looking over my shoulder for what he couldn’t give. He couldn’t love me, at least not in anyway that I could use. He can love himself just fine. I think his idea of showing love is financial. Which is fucked up. Buying me books doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t fix the abandonment I feel, or the fact that I don’t believe anyone can love me. Nor does it fix the idea that I am nothing more than my depression in a human form. I used to think that we’d be able to sit down and talk about all of this stuff, and that we could apologize and have it all be recognized. I realize now that it will never happen. He’s too far gone to realize what has been done, and I think I was expecting something that doesn’t exist. Like a unicorn farting out rainbows. It doesn’t exist.
I’ve made some peace with my mom, and at least she’s willing to be open with me. I think there are things we will never tell the other, and that’s fine. We don’t have to be completely honest with each other. There is stuff that neither of us will let go. I wonder about that especially since people have told me to just let it go. I wonder if I am capable of letting stuff go. If it is possible for anyone to fully let something go like a balloon into the wind. At this point in my life, I don’t think we do. I think it gets talked about and felt enough that we can dull it to a point where it’s not front and center, but it will ebb and flow with a trigger to bring it back. But we learn how to adapt and how to fight those ebbs and flows back into our lives.
This is a depression day. I woke up and depression took over. There will be days like this, and I’m not going to lie and say that I’m okay with it. Because I hate my depression. I hate that it still has the power to take over. I’m sitting here wondering if I should take my mom’s suggestion for intensive therapy and go back on medication. That maybe the writing I’m trying to do isn’t working and it’s just a waste of time. It did help, but I wonder if I’m trying to bite off more than I can chew and I feel like I’m kicking anyone who’s trying to help or support in the face. Because I get into that kick of I don’t need people. They don’t need me, so why the hell would I need them?
My trip to Costa Rica and the vulnerability and openness of it now feels like a dream. My re-shit-try (thought that was a great word for it) has been well shitty. I’m sitting in a house I don’t feel is a home anymore, I’m not feeling capable of reconnecting with the life I have here, but I also don’t have the gumption to seek out anything new. Because I’m in my safe place. I’m in that place where I don’t have to if I don’t want to. I could isolate myself away from life forever if I really dedicated myself to it. But I know that I can’t do it anymore. I’m exhausted. Utterly exhausted in every way I could be. I’m in my weird sleeping schedule again and I’m being curt when talking to people. I try to reach out, and again feel like a fraud because I don’t know why. The whole I’m not good enough thing?
All I know at this moment is that I’m in my depression, and I feel like I’m in the Ether. That I’m here, but I’m not really here. That my brain is hazy today because I’m stuck in my brain versus being in the real world. I’m in those comfortable shoes that I know so well, walking the path I know like the back of my hand. I’ve got my mask on, and I hate it.