It’s been five weeks since I have noticed that I am severely depressed. No, not the instagram/tiktok filtered faced depressed. The I would Phineas Gage myself if my roommates didn’t have to clean up the mess depressed. It’s been three months since I’ve been hypomanic. It’s been three weeks since I have eaten one whole meal a day. It’s been five days since I showered. It’s been 3 days on Wellbutrin. And it’s been one day since I’ve calculated how many of my xanax I need to take to slowly slip away (but then again, I don’t wanna go out covered in my own vomit). 

And…It’s been 15 minutes since I’ve cried. 

Everyone talks about how you should check on your friends who smile the most, and while that may be true I’d check on your friends who are always actually happy. Do not be fooled, actual happiness and depression can coexist. Am I happy? Yes. Do I have any reason to get out of bed in the morning, shower, feed myself, or stop watching Star Trek on repeat? No. Have I had a reason? Yes. Did that reason help? No. But I am happy. I am happy that I’ve worked hard to be where I am. I’m happy that I have worked to love myself. I am happy that the people who know me love me. Being happy, and feeling happy are two different things to me.  I am happy. I laugh, I smile, I talk to friends… but existing? Now therein lies the problem. There is no greater torment sometimes. And while I do have friends who not only check in on me, but spend the entire day with me on FaceTime to help improve my mood and remind me that my existence is important to them, I am still depressed. I believe the little lies I tell them about how it’ll get better and I take their suggestions to heart but when I can’t even get out of bed to pee how can I look 5 steps ahead? 

Depression, true depression, comes from deep deep desperation. Depression comes from intense guilt. Depression comes from years of compounding trauma that clouds your coping to the point of R E V E L I N G in that shit. Depression is not wanting depression to end. Because as bad as depression feels, depression feels good too. I lack the control to control myself or to get ahold of myself, and depression is the monster I know. And while I can’t control the depression, I am familiar with out of control. Everything is out of control, except for getting out of bed. And for as guilty as I feel for doing this to her, the little girl inside of me finds comfort in it too. 

Desperate for healing that may very well never come, it just is what it is. Some days are good, some days are worse, some days are not even fucking days. 

But at least I showered today. 

I’ve been in therapy for years and it mainly consists of coping with daily things. A Pantone test for my own reality- I hold up my cards against hers and we see which scheme is more fitting. My psychiatrist seems to know something that I haven’t realized yet but I only see her to get my medication. She tells me how skinny I look and I ask for a refill. Lamitcal, 100mg. Xanax, .5mg. Promethazine, 12.5mg. Clonidine, 100mg. Neurontin, 200mg. Lamictal for hypomanic borderline swings (otherwise known as the times I’m actually having fun), xanax if the mania induces anxiety to the point of panic attacks, promthazine so I dont get addicted to the xanax, clonidine for ADD, and neurontin for when it gets reallllllly bad. Oh, and lest we forget the prazosin for the PTSD nightmares which made me faint on the fucking toilet. 

I am diagnosed BPD, cPSTD, ADD and anxiety. 

Please don’t put your food in front of mine in the fridge. Please don’t walk too close to me if I can’t see you. Please don’t do anything that will surprise me. Please don’t call me. Please don’t ignore me. Please don’t speak loudly. Please don’t touch my to do list. Please don’t leave the room after an argument. Please don’t make me go somewhere new alone. Please don’t get off the phone with me. Please don’t leave me. 
Please don’t stray from the plan. Please don’t stray from the fucking plan. 
Yet I’m always the first one to say, “we’ll figure it out.” I’m always the one to say, “it’s all good”, and the one who is ok with no fucking plan. 

I need things in terms of yes or no. Is it, or isn’t it. Am I, or am I not? And while I afford everyone else the gray area, my experience can only be black or white. And as unfair as I know that it is to her, the little girl inside of me needs it too. 

The worst moments are when I’m forced to reckon with the idea that I cannot know everything even though I’ve spun every moment, thought, word, silence and glance around in my mind so much that I could not possibly be surprised even in the least bit by any facet of it. I can’t be surprised by any reality that presents because I’m usually right, but I am also always wrong. Can someone do a reality check for me? Where is my Pantone test? What fucking color is this? 


So I sleep for the quiet. But that little girl inside of me runs through my nightmares and I can only save her by waking up, and its been five weeks since I’ve noticed I am severely depressed…