A Letter to My Depressed Brain

Hello dear friend, the little blob of nerves that sits on the top of my head controlling my every move and thought for the past 30 years.

I haven’t spoken to you in a bit. For the most part, you’ve been behaving like a good brain should. Last time we chatted, it was after we were feeling suicidal and spent some one-on-one time in the psych ward. The doctor told me you had post-traumatic stress disorder and depression. He advised I make a few lifestyle changes to cure the pain you were feeling.

And so I did. I moved out of my slumlord apartment, separated myself from my ex and eventually packed a duffle bag and my cell phone and moved thousands of miles away to pursue a better job and a better life, one where I knew the both of us would be happy.

It’s been about three years since we decided to make a run for it, you and I. We got promoted at work and eventually got full-time status. We it made, baby!

But for the last few weeks, you haven’t kept a level head. You’ve forced me into meltdown mode, making me panic over stupid stuff, the most recent being in front of one of my guests while I was working.

Come on, you can do better than that.

My managers, friends, boyfriend and family have noticed the downhill spiral we’ve succumbed to, and they’re worried because, let’s face it, this isn’t me.

You see, admitting I need help has been tough for me. It killed my pride, but I know this is for the best. Although I never expected it to kick me out of work on medical leave, leaving me in group therapy and with a list of new drugs.

I want to get through this, and I’d love it if you’d cooperate.

We’ve been through a lot, you and I. From the abuse we got as kids because of my other disabilities, to finding peace in loving myself despite feeling broken.

All I want is for us to feel like one. I want us to be strong when the world crumbles down on us. We are worthy of self-love and self-esteem.

I’m doing this for you. You are my conscience, the almighty knowing, the thing that rules my better judgment. I won’t give up on you — and I can’t have you give up on me.

Adjusting to the meds might be tough, but we need that little kick in the butt to get us back on track. Work with me and I’ll work with you, whatever it takes. I’m sick of this funk, and it’s time to kick it where the sun doesn’t shine.

Come on, brain. We got this. It’s now or never. And I refuse to settle for never.

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