Dying to Live.
Depression never seems real until it’s too late. While more light is being shed on the subject partly due to high profile cases like Robin Williams, talking about it is still taboo. When I would tell my mom I was depressed she would always say, “You are not depressed. It’s just a phase”. Black lipstick and boys with tattoos are a phase. Unfortunately, depression is not. One could only be so lucky.
I feel there are many stigmas associated with depression. Thus, people don’t like to talk about it or feel stupid for doing so. I felt weak and unworthy, and like the feelings I felt were wrong or invalid. These are all causes of depression in itself. I know my mom meant well by saying what she did, but instead she made me feel ashamed. I looked around at my friends and other people in general knowing that they’ve went through hard times, yet never reacted to their pain and sadness the way I did and felt embarrassed.
I managed to overcome that bout thanks in part to this blog. It was my sanctuary and way for me to express my feelings without being ridiculed (at least not to my face). Unfortunately, not everyone has a place to vent, and when you have to keep everything inside it can eat away at you.
Thinking back to the lowest moments of my depression is haunting. I think about how alone, how small, how insignificant, how empty and how sad I felt and can’t even fathom how some people could fee worse. So much worse that the thought of being dead feels better. No one likes to talk about suicide, and I don’t blame them. It’s a hard concept to talk about, what more understand accept. But imagine if talking about it could prevent it? And for anyone experiencing it, please, please know that just because someone doesn’t talk to you about it, it doesn’t mean they don’t care.
Depression is such a dark, dark place. Those going through it don’t expect you to navigate it with them. They just need to feel like if they ever held out their hand in the dark, yours would be there to hold onto.