I thought the next piece I put on here would be another social critique type piece, but apparently not. This isn’t going to be a discursive piece – it’s just the flotsam of my thoughts regarding one matter in particular.
Depression is something that’s rarely confronted in conventional societies, or environments where studies, marriage, the formula to happiness, are the top focus above everything else – where the strain is normal, and “everybody else has it worse”.
I have been fortunate enough to have parents who understand and sympathise with the concept of depression. Not once did they tell me, as countless others have been told, that “everybody else has it worse”. Their support alone has kept me going countless times, and I struggle to think of where I would be now had they not been with me then.
Even though the worst of it has lifted (and has been lifted for over a couple of years now), I still have my bad days. My bad weeks.
This has been a bad week.
There is the guilt, that I’m not doing well enough. That I’m not doing enough. That I will never be enough.
There is the crippling feeling of inadequacy lying just below the surface of apparently calm waters, that whispers loudly to let self-doubt be my guide.
There is the overwhelming temptation to run from whatever makes me healthy and happy when I feel that things are going too well.
I can’t explain the silent panic that overtakes me when I think of something that I have left too long, too late, out of fear that it won’t turn out well. I can’t describe the anxious wreck my body becomes as it jitters with the feeling of not knowing the future.
Mostly it’s just fear. Fear and cowardice, coiling together in a giant snake of terror, with its tongue forking viciously at me – I will make you scared to move again.
And yet, I tell myself, there are better ways to handle life. One way is to live it, rather than merely exist.
I will move.