Looking back
Seven years ago I was in a terrible place. My ex had just dumped me for another girl. I was getting out of college and I didn’t know what to do with my life, but I knew I couldn’t go back home like my family wanted me to (if I wanted to keep my sanity) and I felt horribly guilty about it. I had no friends, and spent most of nights watching TV, eating boiled vegetables and sobbing. I dreaded the weekends because that meant that I wouldn’t have anything to do. My depression was not as severe as others might have experienced it; I still could get up and go to work and pretend everything was fine during the day. It was the nights that did me in – the long tortous nights where I was by myself and had to think about how horrible and pathetic my life was and there was nothing that could distract me.
Did I think about killing myself? Absolutely, I think anyone at some point has felt depressed enough to do that. I would fantasize about the different ways I could do it, and all I could think about was the relief that I would finally experience, the release from the pathetic shell of a human that I was. The closest I came to it was standing up on my apartment balcony ledge, but I never could go through with it. I reproached myself for being such a fucking wuss that I couldn’t even kill myself properly, that I didn’t even have the courage to do that. I admired people who had the resolve and the will to go through with it, because it meant that at least once, they had taken charge of their life in a way I had never done. In my head, I had a list of all the different ways I could do it, and in my darkest moments, I would recite them like a litany, over and over, making me feel better because at least there was the hope of an out from all the pain, if only I were strong enough. There were times when I would write in my journal, and all I could manage was writing the same sentence over and over again, like when you are punished in school. It was ‘I want to die, I want to kill myself, I hate myself’ over and over again.
Things didn’t get better overnight. In fact, it was fucking tough to admit that I had a problem, to get some help, to go to a therapist. It has taken a lot of time, a lot of effort, a lot of crying and a lot of meds to get to where I am right now; I look ahead and I still see a steep mountain to climb, but I look back and realize that I’ve come a long way.
I wouldn’t wish depression to my worst enemies (if I had any). For everyone who is trying to hang on, remember that you are fucking tougher than anything life throws at you. Keep fighting. I’ve been there, and I can guarantee you’ll reach a point in your life - days or months, or years from now - where you’ll stop, and say to yourself, ‘This was worth fighting for’. And it will feel awesome.
