I’m so depressed, my depression has depression.
Just a few weeks ago, I was determined not to let this bastard get me down. I was going to smile sweetly through the pain and misery, and just be thankful that I still drew breath. I was blowing unicorn farts and sunshine up my own derriere. I should have guessed that my natural disposition would win out in the end.
Okay, this is difficult for me to admit, but I am miserable, unhappy and freaked the fuck out.
Now my broken heart is visible for all to see.
I am due for a doctor visit, but what’s the point? All she can do for me is shake her head sadly and perhaps give me some more pain pills. Or send me off to another specialist, who just shrugs and says sorry, kiddo. There is nothing we can do to help you get your life back.
It’s like being in an episode of The Twilight Zone. Some of my days feel dark and grainy, my black and white world.
It’s getting worse. The pain can shoot up to a level 8 within minutes. My energy is limited, my stamina is pathetic, and I feel like I am fading away a little more everyday.
Am I even the same person anymore?
My smile is real, not forced. My legs didn’t ache and pulsate continuously. I could walk with ease. I didn’t need a nap. I could do anything any normal 36-year-old could do. I was happy then, and honestly believed that my life was finally getting better, not worse.
My brother and I had a tan competition, and he won. (Although our mother beat us both.)
I want to climb into that photograph and warn my younger self, to fully appreciate what we had before it gets taken away, cruelly.
My therapist will want to start seeing me once a week again, once I tell her how truly despondent I am. I am tired of fibbing when someone asks me how I am. I am exhausted keeping up appearances so no one worries about me.
I’m worried about me.