“You only get the one pill?”
This is what I hear every morning when the nurses hand out our meds after breakfast. And every morning I look at the palm full of pills the other patients take, and I wonder what the fuck I’m doing here. I’m clearly not sick enough, not depressed enough.
I once took all the pills I could find in my house, just because I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t trying to die, I just didn’t want to be awake anymore. It worked for a good few hours but I woke up again.
“It was after my third suicide attempt”
I was talking to a friend about depression last night, and she said the above, just as part of what she was telling me. I responded with a story of my own – one I don’t care to share here, yet – and she said:
“I feel selfish about what I’ve gone through compared to what you as a 15 year old was forced into.”*
So we’re comparing shit parts of our lives, I don’t feel like I’m depressed enough, just because I haven’t made multiple attempts on my life. She feels selfish because her depression wasn’t ’caused’ by something specific.
How very fucked up is it that we feel we have to justify our depression. It’s a mental illness, we didn’t choose it. By sheer will/mindpower some are able to keep it in check without medication, but I can’t. I was just using medication, and I didn’t want to deal with the contributing factors so I didn’t go to regular therapy and all of that culminated in a collapse, a break down.
It’s like I needed to restart my life in safe mode. I’m in a safe space, with little stress, little responsibilities and I get to address those things I’ve been hiding in my head.
Admitting myself to a recovery clinic has possibly been the best thing I’ve done in my life. Admitting that I couldn’t keep all the balls up in the air anymore. Admitting that I’m just human, and learning to ask for help.
Best gift I’ve given myself, ever.
* I promise it’s not what you think it is.