And here we are, less than 24 hours after I wrote such a positive post about my strides on the road to recovery I’m crying my eyes out about such useful topic as being ill.
I don’t have many talents in life. I honestly don’t. But I can write, and that’s how I try to make sense of the world around me. That’s why I also started this blog, in order to make sense out of something that doesn’t make sense.
That’s why I’m posting this verbal vomit. Because I want to be honest. This is what depression is really like, for those who don’t know It sucks the joy out of everything, and it lets you know of its presence whenever it feels like it without giving two fucks about how this happens to fit around your plans.
I write this out because I want to be honest but at the same time I get annoyed with myself because I have this need to still find the positives and give out this wholesome and balanced account to show how I do understand all sides to the story. Fuck all sides. Shut the fuck up Ida, you’re doing my head in. I just want to be sad.
I could go on and on about how I drove myself down a road of destruction for years before I finally snapped, talk about coping mechanism and understanding unhealthy behaviours. I can nod while saying that now I’m better equipped to see the warning signs, it won’t get as bad the next time because I now know to look out for the subtlest of abnormalities.
That doesn’t change the fact that I would give anything not to have ever been ill.
One of my friends has started in her dream journalism job. It’s not that I’m not happy for her. Just the opposite. I’m beyond thrilled.
But in a millisecond all of those rational and socially acceptable things were out the window and I was looking at a ghost of how I saw my future only two years prior.
Had I not gotten ill that person could’ve been me.
I know that line of thinking is what really eats you alive. It’s the sort of harmful thinking that makes mental health professionals to make an empathetic sound and nod to show that they DO understand what I’m going through before beginning the
Let’s just get this out of the way. This doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the steps that I’ve taken. It doesn’t undermine how much I enjoy my current job. I know we are two separate people. I know I can still be that person. I know that’s just not my road. I know there’s no point in being sad over things I can’t change.
But I’m just sick of seeing the positives all the time. I’m tired of being a good sport all the time. I just want to be sad over the fact that I got ill because it’s unfair and it may have cost me my dream career.
I’m sad because despite all the strides I’ve made I still write the same thing twice the same thing twice because my brain just doesn’t work the same way it used to. I’m not practising my trade for the simple reason that I can’t.
Who gives a shit that it will come back. It might not. Nobody knows. I hate that an illness has taken that ability away from me in the first place.
I hate that I don’t fit into any of the clothes I wore before I started antidepressants. It’s just the hand I’ve been dealt but I still find it incredibly unreasonable that I’m asked to either choose a terminal illness or a body that makes me feel unattractive.
Nobody is there to start a fanfare when I stand in front of the mirror and I look awful in my work trousers.
I’m also a hypocrite because I’m happy to declare my innermost thoughts to the whole world but too embarrassed to admit to my former course mates that I now work as a waitress. Me, who has never cared about what anyone thinks about me.
Depression has made me vulnerable and I hate it. I fucking hate all of it.
I’m sad because all of this is useless. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and I’m going to take my meds and I’m still going to be depressed. I’m going to get on with what is now my life and I’ll try my darnest to make the best out of the situation.
I’m going to treasure the second chance I got in life when I was hospitalised before I managed to clamber myself out to train tracks.
But just for a moment I want to mourn the ghost of the person who I was two years ago. Don’t get me wrong, this person was ill. It just hadn’t hit a breaking point yet.
But she had hopes, aspirations and dreams for the future. A future that might not have occurred anyway but which I didn’t have a chance at even pursuing because of an illness that came out of seemingly nowhere and momentarily robbed me out of everything that made me human.
I think it’s important to recognise that you are allowed to be sad over something you had no say in. You have to mourn it in order to move on.
I thought I was done grieving but evidently not.
And that’s OK.