I have been more depressed this semester than any other time
at college. In fact, college was a very helpful tool in being able to recognize
that I had depression and find people who were understanding and supportive.
The worst part about depression is that it doesn’t feel like
or look like what you want it to. My ideal version of depression would look
like artistic sorrow. It’s beautiful and blue and the rain falls outside your
window as you ponder what love feels like and you just feel sad about yourself
and others. “The world is just too much” kind of depression. It’s something you
can paint and people say, “Wow. What a deep and conflicted and mysterious
person you are. I just want to give you a hug and hear about how you are
feeling.”
Oh, how I wish that’s how it feels.
But depression feels like your chest is the soggy empty soda
cup sitting in your car that you shouldn’t have drank in the first place and
now it smells and it’s sticky but for some reason you can’t find the will power
to throw it out. It’s that feeling of lying in bed and your sheets aren’t soft
and warm. They’re hot and tinged with sweat and covered in crumbs but you can’t
wash them and getting up isn’t an option. It’s the pimple on your face that is
angry and red and makes you doubt that anyone will ever find you beautiful. It’s
looking at the bells hanging over your bed. You love how they sound. You bought
them impulsively and they transport you to a mountain in Tibet. You know they
will make you feel a little less hollow, but you literally cannot lift your arm
up to just touch them. The arms-length is too far. And you are too unworthy.
And your heart is heavy. And the most you can do is stare at them and wish you
could shake them.
Actually, that’s not what it feels like.
No.
That’s what it is.
I wish those were poetic images. The feelings tucked neatly
inside when the outsides are the more poetic staring out windows and sitting by
fires. But no. Those images are entirely literal. That’s what my depression is.
And when I feel it and see it I think how much I loathe it--how much it makes
me want to rip my skin off. I think to myself, surely no one else can look at
this mess and think I’m worthy of anything more than the crumby, damp,
wrinkled, grey-green hole I’ve made for myself.
And this hurts because what I want most of all in those
moments is for someone to come and wrap their arms around me, without my having
to ask, and sit and not say anything. Nothing at all. Just crawl into my bed
and wrap me up tight enough so that I don’t explode and tight enough so that
the feeling comes back to my limbs. I don’t want to have to explain or make
excuses. I don’t want to have to ask if they really want to be there with me. I want, so selfishly, to be doted
on. Just for a moment. I want to know that I mean the world to someone.
That feels like a lot to ask.
So I'll let depression share my bed.
