Catch-22

I am terrified of getting better and terrified that I won’t. I’m terrified I’m not actually depressed I’m just dramatic. Haven’t I always been a tad sensitive? And surely this paranoia business is not new. Maybe I just need a change of scenery and then all the emptiness will wash away. When I am at my lowest I am convinced that all I have to do is think positively and the fact that I can’t incites rage and frustration and serves to deepen the depression; truly a vicious cycle.

Already a person drawn to extremes, the depression has taken all of my personality traits and exaggerated them; blown them up blimp-style so that even my good attributes have been mutated to monstrous proportions. Remember the Stay-Puff marshmallow man from Ghostbusters? That’s me. That’s my generosity. That’s my loyalty. That’s my selflessness. My humility is about to crush your car. 

So imagine what it’s like to give up control of my mind to a disease.

I’ve always prided myself on my ability to take responsibility for my actions; this has to be something I’ve brought on myself so there has to be something I can do! That my brain is attacking me seems like something out of a sci-fi movie, a bad sci-fi movie, something starring Sharon Stone.

I have to take others’ words for it that this is not me, I am not a Godzilla of emotion and that I am in fact suffering from depression.

Slowly I’m getting the hang of it and to be honest the relinquishment has been kind of nice. It’s exhausting fighting to get healthy while denying that I am sick to begin with.

Unfortunately, with this comes the terrifying notion that maybe I’ll never get better. I don’t want to have to work this hard forever. There is a person that I want to be, that maybe I once was, and the thought of never realizing her is almost as bad as thinking that I have destroyed her myself. Almost.