A Conversation With My Depression

I’m exactly three pages into Reema Zaman’s memoir I am Yours. I started it yesterday when the power in my apartment when out because it was storming like crazy. I felt like I was being transported back to the 19th century as I sat curled on my couch reading by candlelight.

I was sitting there thinking: how much more English majory can I get?

In her chapter beginning Zaman explains how she had stopped trying to explain ‘you’ to anyone. She states, “thus you and I have done what we always have. We tuck ourselves into a room and try to make sense of our pieces. For a long minute I sat staring at my hands or at my reflection asking: How have I become the person I am? How can I feel better? Even in my present state, I know anger is a side effect of pain. And I know that when one is hurt, one needs love” ( Zaman 3). She continues saying “from the spot where my spine meets my brain comes a clear answer and a stern order: write. Record these words. Draw forth and transcribe the lines of you and me until we forge the love I so desperately need” ( Zaman 4).

These lines were so touching to me. I felt like Zaman was speaking directly to me in my current state of brokenness. As I continued to read, a part of me felt convicted. Zaman felt this internal, almost spiritual call to order—a call to write. I, on the other hand, have been doing anything within my power to avoid writing my emotions. Fearful to put them on a page and see them stare back at me. For once the ink is etched on to the paper these feelings and thoughts that I have become concert, real, and tangible. But Zaman is right—writing is healing. It is cathartic.

Especially for me.

It always has been. I might not be able to write my depression away but I can write my truths. Combating the lies that my depression tells me. I can forge that love for myself through my own words. I can face my monster by slicing him with sharp metaphors. Zaman’s words reminded me that I wasn’t alone and that was a great comfort.

Loneliness.

It has been slowly chipping away at my heart. A feeling of worthlessness, inadequacy, shame, tiredness, and hopelessness. This overwhelming sense of pain and sadness that is so looming you feel it in your bones.

It’s me against the world.

I am always alone. I face everything alone. It feels deeply unsettling and unfair. I’m in peril—so much so that I don’t want to get out of bed and leave my apartment. The actual thought of waking up and facing one more day makes me want to melt into a ball on the floor and cry.

But these feelings are unacceptable. They are not to be expressed in toady’s society. These are threatening emotions. They threaten others way of living. They threaten the facade of our continually state of satisfaction and happiness towards life. How are we supposed to understand the world when there are depressed people in it? Shouldn’t you want to live? You’re supposed to want to be happy.

I do. It’s more complicated than that. I ask that you please don’t diminish my thoughts and feelings when I’ve never diminished yours. I’ve never said it’s silly to pursue happiness. That your life is somehow less valid than mine because it lacks pain. My experience is real and valid, even if you don’t understand it. My experience doesn’t need to mimic yours in order to be true.

These are words that I wish I could speak out loud—say to my friends. But something stops me each time. Is it fear? Fear that they won’t believe me? Fear that they won’t listen? Fear that they won’t accept me? We all want acceptance, to feel loved, normal, validated. Why don’t I feel that despite the fact that I rationally know people love and care about me. Why do I want those things so much?

I know my mind is playing tricks on me, telling me lies. But, I believe them. A sadistic, self-harming part of me wants to believe the whispered lies because that way I’ll feel the pain that they cause me. I’d rather feel their pain than the numbness that comes. A heart wrenching, breathless, aching kind of pain that bears down on me like a boulder.

Part of me thinks that if I can’t feel joy anymore, at least I can still feel anguish. At least I am still feeling emotion even if it is some twisted sort of punishment. You’re not worthy of happiness, of joy, of love, of friendship—I’m going to rob you of it. You tragic, shameful, pathetic excuse for a person. Like a dog with its tail tucked you creep off into a dark corner, whimpering, prepared to lick your wounds.

Everything hurts. Breathing, opening your eyes, the thought of facing another day alone. But you're not alone he’ll be in your corner. He’ll be whispering thoughts into your head all day making you feel incompetent—like a fool.

You’ll overthink every action. From how long someone takes to respond to a text, if someone makes direct eye contact with you or not. says hello when you walk by. You’ll read into every word. Did she say she liked it or loved it? Yes or no? Even though whatever just occurred probably has nothing to do with you. It’s easier to think that it does. Place the blame upon yourself, rather than upon others. You deserve the blame. If people are acting different it’s because you messed up. You weren’t good enough. You weren’t perfect. You let them down. You disgust them. You scare them. They want nothing to do with you—you pariah. You aren’t even fun. You’re serious. You’re boring. You’re fake—even if they don’t even know it. You’re a liar.

Who would want to love you? Be your friend? You’re a bother a burden. A fuck up.

Should you even exist?

No one would notice if you went away. If you simply stoped being. Their lives would go on as if you never existed in the first place. Honestly their lives would probably be better. No one would miss you. Well your family and your cat would, but it would be a relief to everyone else to have you out of their lives.

Remember it’s just you out there in this dark ugly world. No one cares about you. No one will come running when you cry out. You’re your only line of defense, your only friend. You’re utterly alone.

There are ways you could end it. Ways you could space. You’ve thought about them before. You have access to pills—take a handful and you’d be gone. It’d be as easy as going to sleep.

I know that’s not an option.

Look at your delicate wrists. You could slice them open. The deep red blood pooling into the water you're submerged in. It’s poetic.

It’s also a massive cliche. Plus I’m scared of knifes the thought of physically cutting yourself scares me. I’d never hang yourself that simply too much effort. I don’t really want to feel pain—I don’t believe in guns. Jumping off a building is a hard pass because I’m scared of heights and hitting the pavement has to be so painful. Really pills are the only option, it’d be so easy. But it’s not an option but you don’t get to die. You have to live even if you don’t want to.

I know he is evil. But life is worth living—again a cliche but also a truth. Eventually you’ll feel great again, something positive will happen you’ll be happy. Deep down you want to live. That’s all you want: to have a life, have a career, fall in love, be a mom. You just also want to die sometimes and while a lot of people don’t understand that—it’s okay as long as you don’t give in. Life is hard. Hard might not even be the right word, it’s a continual battle. Yours might be more challenging than others and I acknowledge that is unfair. You’ll never act on this sadistic desire of wanting to end your own life, but you have a plan, a way out.

In a sense that gives him power over me. I could listen to his tempting voice. I could believe the thoughts he plants in my head and my heart but I don’t. I refuse to believe this. I believe I am worthy of life and I am worthy of living. I am a fighter. I’ve fallen victim to his dark charms, but that is how he sustains himself by feeding off my will to live. Still, I’ve never let him fully dominate me. I’ve come close but there is a small part of me that won’t die—and she always seems to be triumphant.

He likes to use me against myself. How messed up is that? Positive attributes of my personality—he contorts them, steals their purity and taints them. They then become dangerous. Healthy transforms into rot. Hope for example. You are such a hopeful, naive little girl. Many would find that to be an admirable quality. It is one of the first parts of me he seeks to control and manipulate. I never want to give up. I always want to see the good in people. I believe that people can change. I forgive.

How fucking stupid is that. You naive bitch.

You believe that your life can get better? You want to accept this shit-hole of a life? You want to believe that love conquers all? I’m hear to plant doubt in all your beliefs. You believe in respect, higher-thinking—you have expectations.

Are these bad?

Didn’t it floor you the other day when you learned that the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of hope is: desire combined with expectation.

Damn, that must have been a slap in the face.