The Mold In My Mind: 20 Years Of Depression & Fighting For My Mental Health
I was diagnosed with depression when I was 19 because I'd tried to end my life. The 18 months leading up to that night had been deeply traumatizing and damaging to my mental health. I'd experienced homelessness, sexual assault, and a near constant barrage of abuse from my mother, despite living hundreds of miles away from her and trying desperately to create even more distance between us. I was working at McDonald's, I was broke, I had recently moved back to my hometown, but didn't really know anyone, so I felt deeply alone. I'd lost hope that my life could possibly get better.
For a long time only a couple of people knew about that first attempt because I was ashamed of myself. Too ashamed to tell anyone, even boyfriends and friends. I was raised to believe that suicide was the coward's way out. I was told people who took their lives didn't go to Heaven. I was told that someone who chooses death is ungrateful.
When I tried to take my life, I felt so much shame, especially because I didn't succeed. Living with the despair was hard enough when I thought dying might make it go away, but the despair after a failed attempt is a whole other animal. I failed at failure. I couldn't even get my own suicide right.
It didn't help that one of the people who knew about it accused me of doing it for attention. As they held my hair back, and I vomited up a bottle of pain pills and ipecac syrup they whispered, "Some people do this for attention. That's probably why you did it, y'know."
(It wasn't. I did it because I didn't want to be alive, "Sharon.")
For years after that attempt I internalized my failure and her words. "Did I do it for attention?? What kind of person does this for attention?! A terrible person. A terrible person like me. Because I'm weak. I'm ungrateful. No wonder people hate me. No wonder I'm alone."
I churned that shame and self-loathing over and over again until it became something so insidious and consuming I still have bits of it left inside of me, clinging to the corners of my brain like a mold I can't quite reach. And some days/weeks/months/years I can feel it up there, poisoning my life with its lies.
This past week and a half the depression has been very, very heavy. I had to tell my spouse what was happening. I had to tell my best friend. I had to completely shut down and go into "survival mode", which for me entails my "strong" medications, a lot of sleep, and teary confessionals in my Instagram Close Friends list.
When it's heavy like this, the loudest voice in my head is the one telling me I'm still alone. I'm still unlovable. I'm still not good enough. And I never will be.
I know however that this isn't true. I know because my spouse made food for me and ran baths for me and gave me space when I needed it and held me when I needed it. I know it isn't true because my best friend listened to me and shouted their love for me. I know because my friends slipped kind messages into my dm's and texted me love.
I am not alone.
The mold inside my brain is still lying to me, and it lies about a whole lot of things, but that particular thing I KNOW isn't true. And I will keep fighting back against it until the day I do leave this plane of existence. But that's not any time soon. And certainly won't be by my own hand. Not because of shame. But because of love. I am loved. And I am worthy of love. And I have never been truly alone.
And I never will be.
The burden of depression is heavy. But, I don't bear it alone. And that makes life worth living.
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