I wish I had another disease. A beatable but taxing disease; I don’t mean to trade up. Just something I could fight stoically and be praised for staying positive. If I have to struggle then I’d at least like to inspire. I want to write a funny but touching memoir all about how turning that frown upside down helped me live life to the max (in my head, to the max was said in a demolition derby announcer voice — try it!).
Instead, I’m stuck with depression; a disease that has stripped my coping mechanisms and destroyed any buffer I once had between what I feel and what comes out of my mouth. My emotions have gone up against rational thought and kicked the shit out of it; now rational thought doesn’t even bother showing up.
I have always been rather volatile and passionate and I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve but now I’m a hysterical mess. My perception is distorted and I’m so sensitive that any tiny, miniscule injustice, real or imagined affects me like acid to the face. I will lash out and bite your fucking head off.
Yesterday, I sat upstairs, fuming, while my sister and my dad threw my brother a birthday dinner because my dad’s girlfriend’s kids showed up for a free meal and beer. And when I found out she made the chocolate cake my recently deceased grandmother made for every single birthday I stormed out in tears.
Would I have been irritated if I wasn’t depressed? Probably. Was it in bad taste to bake a cake using the recipe of a woman she’d never met? YES. Do I want her kids to be my bestest friends forever? No. But, if I were in my normal state of mind, would I have ruined my brother’s dinner by acting like they’d all burned down my house and then kicked my dog? Definitely not.
The dangerous part comes after an outburst when it dawns on me that perhaps I over-reacted, misunderstood or imagined conflict. I retreat into an impenetrable shell. I will slice up my hands and wrists with whatever sharp tool is at hand; I cry so much that I pee dust; I hate myself and miss myself in equal measures.
After I left my dad’s I drove over to my mum’s home and the whole way over I was overcome with such sorrow over my reaction that I wanted to drive off the bridge. Tears streamed down my face and the self-loathing weighing on my soul felt like a thousand tonnes.
These ‘fits’ last from fifteen minutes to two hours; it usually depends on whether I have people around me or not. Being with my mum snapped me out of it that time. I hate being so dependent; I feel as if I’m just needy or desperate for attention.
I’m scared that I am going to ruin all my relationships by acting like a crazy person then playing the depression card. So far, I’ve lost one close friendship and I will grieve for that friend for a very long time but I have to believe that my other relationships are stronger. That from those who love me I can be given patience, compassion and empathy while I struggle to get better.
In return, I will try and try and try to temper my reactions, to check my perceptions and to get back to passionate instead of tempestuous.
While I may not ever inspire people with my story and attitude, maybe I can manage to come out of this with all my friendships intact. That would be way better than writing an Oprah approved memoir.
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