In light of Robin Williams' tragic and truly heart-breaking
passing, much attention has been brought to the cruel world that is depression.
For those of you who have struggled with depression personally, you know that
it is just that- a world in which you live, an actual tangible place that
exists all around you. And often times, it tries to swallow you whole.
The first time I thought about killing myself was when I was
thirteen years old. I don’t know where the thought came from or the exact date
I ran my first pop tab across my bare skin. I don’t know why the darkness
nuzzled itself into the back of my mind, why it chose me as its host; I don’t
understand how it seeped into my skin. And I can’t tell you why it still
follows me everywhere I go, like a shadow that’s attached itself to the very
tips of my toes. But it’s always here. Inside of me, a part of my existence.
Sometimes it lays dormant, calm and still; sometimes it rages like a wild fire,
engulfing and destroying everything in its path.
You can swallow pills that tame it- dulling the flames, but never
really putting them out. Bottles and bottles of pastel colored pills: In the
bathroom cabinet next to the Aspirin, behind the razors and shaving cream. In
the bottom of your purse tangled among the chewing gum and lip gloss. Tucked
beneath your pillow just in case the dreams tear you from your bed and reality
again. One for when you cannot sleep at all, when the days and nights blur into
one another. The pills that often take the happiness and the goodness too. They
numb you until there is only a cracked, empty shell left of the person you once
were.
The blue and yellow ones to straighten you out, to fix whatever
chemical imbalance is taking place inside your head, swimming around. To rid
you of the darkness; sometimes of the lightness, too. The white ones for
anxiety. When your senses are running on overdrive and your heart is beating
like hammers, fluttering beneath your rib cage, you feel as if your entire
skeleton may cave in on itself. When everyone in the room is staring and you
can feel their gazes burning into the back of your spine until you can’t catch
your breath. When staying home is easier than trying to explain why a room full
of people makes you want to run for the bathroom and hide behind the stall
doors; it’s safe there. Quiet. Calm. The pink ones for a night of rest. Some
days there is no sleep in sight. Fifty-seven hours and counting for drooping
eyelids and an untouched bed. Sometimes when you do find sleep, the dreams wake
you in a cold sweat. Too real. Too painful. Another white one for the mania.
Go, go, go, go, go, go until you crash. And when you crash, you crash and burn.
Pills, pills, pills. A dependency on medication to make you feel
like you’re in the realm of normalcy. A handful of pharmaceuticals and you’ve
got it all, kid. Right?
And then there is self-medicating with booze, and uppers, and
downers, and everything in between when you’ve given up on the pills. Anything
to feel something. Anything to make you feel nothing. Anything to make you feel
like yourself again. That person has got to be buried somewhere beneath the
surface. Somewhere there has got to be a piece of the old you left.
Scars lining the inner parts of both of my arms, and on my back,
legs, feet, and wrists. I use to rip apart disposable razors and I would use a
lighter to heat up scissors and knives to burn myself. Afterwards, I would wrap
my wounds in toilet paper and wet them until they hardened like paper mache,
and I would roll down my sleeves, hiding the evidence, keeping the pain to
myself. I have tried to count them all, all of my scars, but there are too
many. I use to punch myself repeatedly in the face until my cheeks would swell
and I could see them from the corners of my eyes. I remember trying to cover
the bruises and swelling with my make-up and I remember the day my orthodontist
did x-rays of my mouth before I got my braces on; he told me that my jaw had
been broken and healed. I cannot remember what excuse I had made, or if I had
even made one up at all. A boy once looked at my arms when I was crying and he
called me a stupid drama queen. I hadn’t cut myself in six months before that
night. It bled for a week straight.
I tried killing myself six times before I turned eighteen. Six
times. All with those damn pills. I remember the first time I tried, I had
taken twenty-six. Each attempt I would add a few more, a couple blues, a few
whites. Each time, waking in the middle of the night, throwing them up until I
swore my tongue was stained with the taste the bile left behind. My last
attempt at suicide was in 2011. Fifty-eight Amitriptyline and a goodbye text to
my parents before I fell into a deep peaceful sleep. That was all I had to
give. I thought of no one, but myself. The depression had taken over my life as
I lay nearly lifeless in my best friend’s bed. She had to find me like that and
I don’t think I can ever quite forgive myself.
Depression is real, and it is all consuming, and difficult, and
suffocating. It is not beautiful, nor a light-hearted matter and it’s not
always simple and easy to talk about, but damnit, it is important to recognize
that it exists and it doesn’t just go away because we wish for it to, or
because people deem it unacceptable. And it is something that we need to talk
about. Depression is the storm and the waves that pull you under, waiting for
you to drown beneath its weight. It is not something we should feel ashamed
about. We should not be made to feel as if our illness is abominable, or any less
severe or debilitating than cancer or any other disease. None are paths chosen.
None are easy. They eat away at your body, mind, and soul.
Each day is a struggle. Each day that we battle and face depression head on, and we make it through, is a victory. This is the world of depression and I will fight for my life and for the lives of the people that struggle every day to fight for theirs. I will take a stand and I will not hide from who I am.
Will you?
If you struggle with depression or if you ever just need someone to talk to when you're feeling down, or heck, even if you want to talk when you're happy- please feel free to contact me. I will be here for you and I will give you an open ear and an open heart, and I will listen without judgement. My email is pryokait11@gmail.com Asking for help does not mean weakness. It shows true strength.
If you do not feel comfortable speaking with me, below is a phone number for a twenty-four hour crisis hotline. You do not have to identify yourself to them. They also offer crisis intervention services through text messaging. To access this service, text the keyword ANSWER to 839863. All crisis hotline services are free of charge.
1-800-273-8255
