The black dog walks ever by my side. It is omnipresent. The drugs do not work. I am losing hope.
Every day my experiences and feelings are dismissed.
Everyday the will to live is drawn from me with gasping breath.
How much do I owe my progenitors? Does the debt diminish if I detail the abuses? Does kicking, hitting and belittling decrease my debt, even just a little bit?
I want to cut so badly.
I want to scream and flay the world, that my pain is real. I bleed inside. But that is another person. A person who was not beaten into submission.
I am thirty years old and I still cringe at her tone.
My mother is an abuser.
My father never stopped her.
My mother’s friend’s son is also depressed. But he tried to commit suicide so clearly he’s way more depressed than me. /sarcasm
My family thinks like this. My state of mind is written off as an temporary situation. I can’t win. I just cannot explain to them how serious this is. If I show my feelings, I get told to cheer up. If I fake being ok, in their minds it is proof that my illness is no big deal. My mother has seen me with blood running down my arms after I got cut-happy with a razor, but it hasn’t changed her ability to see me or what I’m going through.
I’m not trying to play the depression olympics with tis other person. I cannot measure levels of depression. He was always a bit of a manchild before his breakdown and I cannot imagine that he is coping well.
I don’t want to attempt suicide to make them see. I want to live (more or less). My desire for self-harm is increasing again. I want to carve my skin into pretty lines of blood with a sharp blade. I have managed to avoid buying the razor but my resolve is weakening.
I know that I’m generally a good patient. I take my meds and I am trying to get better.
I am in hell. Caught between the fake happy and the intense desire to shred my arms to pieces and see the red blood flow. Those closest to me do not hear my cries for help. They minimise and deny and I’m lost.
I want to slice my wrists open until blood is flowing down my arms, changing the grey of my life to red, staining the sheets.
But I don’t because it would cause too many questions.
There must be some kinda way out of here. Out of the grey, dead feeling of my brain. Out of the cold of the unfeeling place.
I exist but I do not live. I am grey.
I hate this life.
I used to be alive.
I don’t know. Things should be better but I’m having difficulty assigning a scale to how depressed I am. I’m not cutting but I think about it – a lot.
It’s only day 2 on lexapro so I can’t even tell what I feel apart from tired, manic, insomniac and other contradicting feelings.
I’m smoking like a chimney and wandering around in my nightdress.
I was refused disability allowance on health grounds. Depression isn’t a disability apparently when one is 30 – “sure you’ll get over it” and the doc will write me sick notes from week to week to allow me to get social welfare, which means I have no security.
I don’t know how other people manage? How do you hold down a job with manic/depression?
I’m to numb to rant even.
I have a new doctor. He’s proactive and says I can do better than ok. He’s changed my meds from 150mg of zoloft to 5mg of lexapro. Now for the new side effects. What fun!
I’m completely thrown.I’ve just woken up from a horrific nightmare. I dreamed I was raped by a friend.
Now I’ve had the depression nightmares before but this was in such excruciating detail that it is still freaking me the frack out.
I am a two time rape survivor – one from a guy I was fucking and once drugged by a stranger. What I know for certain is that my dream never happened.
I thought I was getting better or at least staying at the “not really coping but everyone thinks I am” stage. I have vivid depression dreams all the time but the detail of this and the friend involved have freaked me out.
I guess it’s time to go back to counselling. It’s just the thought of spilling my guts once again and getting fucked over or misdiagnosed is exhausting.
I thought things would be better when I moved back. They are not.
I’m living in the country by myself which is great but everytime I come up to the city I am insomniac once more.
I feel like my skin is alien. I am not me. The drugs are killing my mind. My words are gone. My breath is gone. My agility and balance are gone. I haven’t showered in over a week. My hands tremble and my head aches.
I am going back to conselling soon. I hope that this one will be better than the last one cos I can’t put up with another crappy shrink.
Am I going to be depressed for ever? Is that a life?