Better…

This was the first piece of writing I had done in quite a few years.  My college had a contest for people to write about taking the Stigma out of Mental Illness and I thought I would give it a shot to try to work my muse a little bit.  The winners ended up being drawn randomly because there were so many contestants, however I didn’t believe I would win anyway- it was just for fun.  It was therapeutic for me to write and it is based on real events however, things were dramatized just a little bit for effect for the story.  If you or anyone you know seems to be depressed, get help.  Don’t worry about them being mad at you, because they probably will be, but if you really care about the person, you helping them is all that matters. Get in contact with: Kids Help Phone  Helplines

They all said it would get better.

They always say it will get better, eventually.

How long is “eventually”?

What are the magic words that need to be said for “eventually” to be “now”?

I start asking myself when this had begun to affect my life.  What was the turning point that made me, the person who smiled and laughed until I was red in the face, become the person who still does that but does not feel the beauty of those things on the inside?  I also wonder if any of my thoughts actually make sense.  Am I just depressed or am I clinically insane too?

Life seems to be one very, very, long work week; a work week where each day needs a cold drink to end it with.  Does drinking actually make anything better?  It’s like when someone says they can’t breathe but then they smoke a whole cigarette.

The crash. The crash took away the weekends of my very long “work week” life. Doctors, my parents, my friends, they all say I should talk about it.  To them, the crash was the turning point.  I had always been a small girl but I used to have a healthy appetite.  After the crash, water seemed to be too much for me to have as a meal.  If I admit that the crash was in fact the turning point for me, it feels like how sad I feel will conquer and win.  I therefore object to believing it is the cause of all of this.

As for talking about it, what is there to talk about?  It happened.  There’s nothing that could be done about it now.  Just like nothing could be done with how I dealt- or how I am- dealing with it.  I don’t want to do so-called “fun” activities, especially when one of my friends will never have a chance to do the same fun activities again.

Fun Dip.

That’s what I was eating when my friend instant messaged me that our friend was dead.  He had asked me if I wanted to hear something funny- (who wouldn’t?) “Paul’s dead.”  It wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t my friend’s fault, the car had a glitch and it went into oncoming traffic.

They played “Forever Young” by Bob Dylan at his funeral.  Fun Dip had always made me feel young.  I can’t eat Fun Dip anymore.  I feel old and worn out.

Depression.

The medical term alone makes me depressed.  I always had anxiety induced episodes as a kid growing up.  Can I just blame genetics for why I feel so awful all of the time?  What if I’m not actually suffering from a disorder and it’s just plain and simple- I’m sad.  Maybe I’ve gotten so used to this that I can’t see that it’s not normal to feel this way.  I’m just not normal. 

The psychiatrist said perhaps if I wrote about my feelings, it would help me.  It made me feel like Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby.  In the end of that tale, it helps Mr Carraway sleep.   I can only hope for the same.  However, whenever I do in fact sleep, all I want to do is stay asleep; to not have to get up from my bed to face school, work and people.  Which is better, insomnia or hyper insomnia?

Before my friend died, he had gone for a walk with me to one of my favorite spots and we sat on a bench talking about anything and everything.  He walked me to my door, gave me a kiss and said goodbye.  We had made plans to see each other for our first official date four days later. It would have been three days after his car accident.  I never saw him again after that goodbye kiss.

He would not want me to stay in this darkness because of something that happened to him.  Maybe that’s why I agreed to write any of this.  I stopped writing a journal when I was younger because my own thoughts bugged me.   However, who is to say you, the doctor, will understand any of these jumbled thoughts of mine? 

I can’t give up on myself.  Depression will not win this fight.  I refuse.  My “forever young” friend would want me to be better.  I must remind myself of that and that is why I will even give this to you for you to read, Doc.  He would be one of the people who would tell me to not give up- even if I’ll only be better “eventually”.

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