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I Don’t Know How to Be a Person Anymore

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I don’t know how to be a person anymore. I pretend like I know. I go through the motions of what I imagine “normal” to be like. I try to fade into the background. And maybe that’s my problem. I’m not supposed to blend.

My anxiety worries that people can tell that I’m not normal. My depression reaffirms the fear by calling me a freak. The cycle is endless.

I want to do better. I want to be better, but I’m crying again.

This time it’s because I had the courage to reach out for help only to be shot down because of insurance/lack of finances. It’s not the first time this has happened. Talking to someone about your fucked up mind shouldn’t be this hard.

I might throw up.

It takes a lot for me to ask for help. I typically debate with myself for two solid days before deciding one way or the other, telling myself all the ways asking for help makes me weak. My logical, rational mind knows none of this is true, but that part of my mind is on vacation right now.

This time I’m asking for help for the sake of my husband. My last major depressive/anxiety filled fucked up irrational nonsense episode pushed him more than in the past. He wants me to be happy. I want the same thing.

“What’s wrong? What can I do?” he asks.

I’m laying in bed with the covers up to my ears looking at him.

“Nothing’s wrong babe. Nothing really happened. Just the usual,” I mutter through the blanket. “I’m just sad right now.”

We’ve had this conversation many times in our years together. Even in the dimly lit room I can see the love and worry in his eyes, the need to help me. My husband is a saint.

I get out the words, “I wish you could fix me,” before I begin sobbing uncontrollably.

He can’t fix me. No one can.

I tell him my head wants to cave in on itself. I want it to end. The voices. One telling me I suck, the other worrying that I’m not good enough. I tell him they’re winning today.

“So, you’re giving up? That’s not you,” he says.

I can’t expect him to understand. I don’t want to give up. Hiding in bed isn’t me giving up. The voices got the better of me today. The bed helps me reset.

He tells me he gets frustrated because I’m never happy. He feels like he doesn’t make me happy. I tell him he’s the only thing that makes me happy. That’s part of the problem. I latch onto him because I want to be happy, but I don’t know how to feel joy.

I often fake joy to make him feel better and maybe a part of me thinks I can trick my brain into believing that it’s real. Maybe I’ll snap out of it. I don’t want to be like this. No one wants to be like this.

I can’t remember if I was ever happy. Certain things and people make me happy, sure, but overall I’ve never been the person to wake up happy and go to bed grateful. Can I be hypnotized? Maybe I can be tricked into believing I’m someone who understands joy? Nah, my brain would never allow it.

I thought online therapy might be the answer. It seemed perfect for me since I hate people. I felt some hope. And then I was told they don’t accept my insurance or the backup plan. No insurance + no money = no help. All I want is to give a shrink a giant brain dump so they can tell me I’m too smart for my own good and that I don’t belong in therapy. I have a pattern.

I’m not a good therapy patient. I know others have it much worse than I do and talking about my “problems” seems trite. And now my depression is saying, “See? You can’t even do therapy right.”

For now, I will put a fake smile on my face and push through as always until our healthcare system isn’t a fist full of money hungry assholes. I won’t hold my breath.

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Originally published: December 3, 2016
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