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What It's Like to Live in a Depressed State of Mind

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Editor's Note

If you experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741741.

My alarm goes off very early in the morning. Reluctantly and not fully awake, I turn it off. “What time is it?” I think to myself. I look to my right and double-tap the screen of my phone…7:30. Right, I have to go to work and then to university. “Why do I have to wake up?‘ I ponder to myself, and without a second thought, I turn the alarm off.

My dad bursts into the room half an hour later. “Hey, we need to leave. You’re gonna be late to work again. It’s already 9:30 and you needed to be there half an hour ago.” I mumble some words groggily that probably mean something like, “I’m on it,” or “Give me five minutes and I’ll wake up.” Dad grunts, and in a huff he goes to the living room to wait for me.

The two hours since my alarm has gone off, until the moment I get up from bed, are the worst part of my day. It’s laziness, you might think, but no, it’s pretty far away from that. My body is heavy as an anvil; my legs are stiff, my chest hurts and my mind is dead. I wonder why I have to get up, why I have to continue with my life if all I want is to be dead? Yet I do get up. I brush my teeth. I dress up, drink my coffee and set off to work.

After a long, depressing ride I arrive at work. My colleagues know there is something wrong with me, so they don’t say anything. I sit down at my desk and put my headphones on. I can’t be bothered to talk to anyone. If I’m going to do my job, I will do it silently. My lips are sealed, not because I don’t want to speak, but because my words are dead, just like me.

It feels as though I were a puppet and someone was controlling me. I do everything because it is a routine. I walk, talk, breathe — all because I’m trying to function even if inside my heart is aching. “Am I that tired?” I ask myself, but after mulling over it, I realize it’s my depression attacking me again. No, my legs and my arms aren’t heavy because my 10 hours of sleep weren’t enough, but instead because something has been trying to make me drown for the last eight years.

After work I head to university. At this point in the day, it dawns on me that I have not been aware of what is happening around me. Shit, my borderline personality disorder (BPD) is making me dissociate again. Everything that my eyes see is not really processed by my brain, because it is somewhere else. My mind is not there — I am not there — and suddenly, I don’t feel anything anymore. Before this, I felt gutted, but now I’m numb. Emotionless. Speechless. Thoughtless.

My friends don’t notice there is something wrong, and if they do, they remain silent. I sit in class but none of the information I am given seems to be assimilated. At some point I dare to say something to pretend I’m fine, but my friends think I’m stupid. Now I wish I were in bed safe, where no one can harm me. But I realize that, even if it seems otherwise, it is my mind who is killing me. Now I’m even deader.

I come back home. I wonder why I keep existing. I start mulling over how I lost my mum to suicide and how much it was my fault, but no, my post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) instantly suppresses all thoughts that are related to my worst trauma. I start wondering how on earth I got this fat and how ugly I feel. I believe I am not worthy of love. I self-harm. If I’m not dissociated enough, I cry. But nothing seems to fix anything or even fix me.

Then I feel I’ve had enough. Even if I’ve attempted suicide several times, I’m not going to do it again today. Instead, I rush to my piano, my guitar. My fingers fly over the keys and stick to the strings as though they were their savior. I sing, trying to let it all out, trying to tell the world I am here, that I exist, and my words are actually real. Then, I open my laptop, and begin writing my novel. Today, I will write one of the most crucial chapters. Today, I’m actually gonna do something for me.

Even if it seems like the end, there will always be something or someone who will make you feel like it’s worth it. For me, it’s music and writing. Without them, I am dead. Remember the times when you used to have passions and try to bring them back. There is a spark of light inside you, you are definitely not your depression, but you are you. Bring those memories back because the real you still lingers. Fight to find the source of that spark of light, because that will be the only thing that, even when you feel like dying, is going to save you.

Photo credit: Goran13/Getty Images

Originally published: June 17, 2019
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