What I Can Never Seem to Say About My Depression and Anxiety
This is what I want my favorite person to know, but I can never seem to say:
I know I’m a hypocrite. I know I always encourage you to talk to me about the things that bother you, to tell me all the things you can’t talk to anyone else about. Then, I know I can’t do the same. I say I’m fine when you ask if I’m OK, and I’m really not.
I want you to know it’s not that I don’t trust you. I really, really want to tell you. Yet, at the same time, I don’t want you to know what a mess I sometimes am. I don’t want you to think less of me. It’s not that I don’t think you’d stick by me like I stick by you, but the depression and the anxiety throw everything at me to convince me you’d be disgusted by the thoughts in my head.
I know you care, but the shadows in my head and in my chest don’t like me very much. Every day they’re there, telling me how you can do better than me and how I’m holding you back and being selfish by keeping you for myself. They say, “If he only knew, if he knew what a failure you are and how weak you are, then he’d run a mile.” Every single day. They inject my soul daily with self-pity and self-hatred until complete apathy seems the only way I can keep myself alive.
I know how lucky I am to have you. My trouble lies in holding onto the belief that you’re somehow lucky to have me. That I’m somehow a person worthy of love, time and commitment. I don’t always feel this way.
I know I come across as lazy, ungrateful and all the rest. Yet, years of living with depression has sapped me of motivation. What’s the point in getting a new job? I’ll only be unhappy there too. What’s the point of tidying up? It’ll only get messy again. Complete organization and tidiness feel so at odds with what’s inside me that it breaks me a little. I like a little chaos in my world because it makes me feel more at home.
Sometimes, you ask me to do you a favor, and I’m so terrified of doing it wrong that I don’t do it at all and offer no explanation. In fact, I’m so terrified of doing everything wrong and not being good enough that I can barely get up in the morning, let alone face everything the day throws at me.
I want to ask you to bear with me, but the depression and anxiety won’t let me. I want to tell you all the lies they whisper in my head so you can remind me lies are exactly what they are, lies. I want you to hold my hand when I’m withdrawing into myself, for the warmth of your skin to ground me. I want you to know I hate asking for confirmation of how you feel about me, that it makes me feel weak and needy. Yet, I think I need to hear it. It’s not that I don’t already know, but the awful thoughts in my head make it so hard to believe.
So here’s my bare honesty, all my neediness and the soft part of me. I really do love you and appreciate everything you do for me. Please, bear with me and help me fight my demons. You can’t fight them for me, but I need to know you’re always on my side. You might need to remind me you’re there on my bad days more often than you do on my good days.
Please, fight with me.
This post originally appeared on Waterfall Thoughts.
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