A Rant About Mental Health

I thought I was done with this. I’m on two different medications both at strong doses because my doctor was so scared when I called their office to tell them I was having passive suicidal thoughts. That was maybe a year ago? I don’t remember. I just remember getting home from work on my bike, because I was trying to be healthier and greener, tears streaming down my face as I sobbed into the rain, soaked, wobbly, peddling, and nearly crashed into my back door because I just wanted inside. I wanted away from my own thoughts, away from the cars and the ditches I could throw myself into. That my mind told me I could throw myself into. A valid option.

My partner was there waiting for me, knowing I felt bad. Eager to be a shoulder to cry on. They’re a huge help for me, a stable home and a loving embrace.

And this was even after I had left my last job, a job that I often cried at my desk, or left to the bathroom to cry, or cried as I left, or on the bus home. I had managed to escape that environment for a much brighter and healthier one. Why was I still crying?

I had been playing with medication for this already. First birth control. That made it worse. I gained twenty five pounds. I felt just as bad. I tried a different birth control. Same results. I tried an anxiety medication. Better, but not great. When I broke down they sent me to a specialist. Upped the dose on one, gave me another.

I often comment on how I feel now. I’ll be reading quietly or leaving the movies, or just lying in bed. I’ll be getting dressed and look in the mirror, or I’ll make myself a meal. I’ll look up and smile, genuine.

“I feel great. The medicine must be working well.”

And then I’ll be doing something just as innocuous and start to feel my heart pound, my nose sting. I’ll start to cry, I’ll feel like curling up into a ball under my desk, or running far, far away until even I can’t find myself. I’ll think “I was never better. I was lying. I was fooled, it was wishful thinking. I’ve never been happy. I haven’t been happy in so long.”

It’s only been an hour.

I’ve only been unhappy for an hour, and this is how my brain talks to me? This is my response to the tight chest of anxiety, to the sudden slide of a down day? Everyone has down days. Why do I feel the need to look up social security disability requirements? Why is my first instinct to tell myself to quit my job?

Why do I feel just as scared as I did on my bike in the rain, even though nothing is wrong?

And I know the answer. It’s a fucking obvious answer. It’s because I’m clinically depressed. That’s kinda the definition of being depressed. Its textbook. It’s easy to understand.

It does not feel satisfying.

I’m still about twenty five to thirty pounds too heavy. I don’t fit in almost any of my clothes anymore.

I find joy in my hobbies again though. I have emotions. I get happy. Sometimes I wake up smiling, it’s really cute.

I just wish I could get past this.