When you’re feeling sad, there’s usually a coping period. Whether you’re dealing with the loss of a loved one, the end to a relationship, getting passed over for a job you had your heart set on, or learning that Taco Bell got rid of their Verde sauce, it’s normal to feel down. You’re allowed to cry, to mourn. It’s acceptable to fall apart. People understand it. But after a certain period of time, be it six days or six months, you’re expected to just get over it.
This coping period is not quite specified anywhere. It’s typically on a case-by-case basis. However, if you go beyond the unwritten period of acceptance, it’s noticed.
“It’s been x amount of days/weeks/months, it’s time to move on“.
But some things are hard to just “get over”. Things like depression.
You know what’s really hard? Having depression for no other reason than the fact that your brain can’t just do it’s damn job. No reason. No cause.
Just recently, maybe within the past few months, I’ve begun to accept that I am living with a mental illness. I’m living with depression. I know I’ve been talking about it a lot lately. Maybe it’s annoying. But it’s bad. Okay? It’s really bad. So writing about it may be annoying but it’s one of the few things that I can do to make it not feel so bad.
I’ve been trying like hell to just get over it. But I don’t even know what it is! I’m so tired. All the time. Battling your own mind can be pretty exhausting. But most nights I can’t even sleep because I’m up until three in the morning crying over God knows what. And I can’t eat. I literally lost ten pounds this month. I have to force myself to eat just so I don’t starve to death. It’s not like I’m eating fruit or vegetables. It’s a taco here and a chicken tender there. But that’s the best I can do right now.
My body hurts. Everything hurts. For no reason. Part of me hopes that my body is just shutting down. Like this is my messed up brain’s way of just giving up.
Lately, I’ve had a lot of people reach out to me. To tell me that they’re thinking of me. To tell me that I’m not alone. To assure me that this is temporary and that things are going to get better. To commend me for my honesty. To send me extensive lists of doctors and numbers. And it’s a lot of things. Comforting. Humbling. And…overwhelming.
Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate the love. I appreciate the positive thoughts. I appreciate that people are taking the time to read what I wrote. I’m humbled by the amount of people that have told me that they can identify with what I wrote. By the amount of people who just want me to know that they care.
But it’s scary. Although it’s great to know that people care enough to want me to get better, it adds pressure. Like not only do people want me to get better, but they expect it.
How long do I have? How long is my coping period? Am I on a timeline? What steps are people expecting me to take? What’s the time-frame to get all my shit worked out before people begin to give up on me?
I can feel others getting frustrated with me. I can share in this frustration. I’ve been putting off finding a doctor. I’ve been sent lists. I’ve been sent numbers. I know that I need to keep pushing. I know that I need to try. I have the resources right in front of me. And I still haven’t made any waves.
I need you all to understand something. It’s not that I don’t appreciate the helping hands that have been extended to me. It’s not that I think feeling like this is okay. It’s not. But I haven’t done much of anything lately. I haven’t been talking to a lot of my friends. I deleted all social media apps from my phone. I haven’t been going out. I haven’t been journaling. I haven’t responded to texts and messages. I haven’t done much of anything at all.
I don’t know how long my coping period is. I don’t know how long I have to mourn this loss. The loss of sunshine. The loss of my motivation. The loss of my energy. The loss of myself.