There are a great many things I dislike about depression. One of the biggest? Actually, no, there are two. The first is how impossibly selfish it makes me, and the second is the very real impact it has on those around me. This is why I prefer having a therapist to talk to – how I am has no impact on them. But on my family? On my friends? It very much does.
Living with someone who is depressed is a bloody nightmare, and there’s no way to make that sound any better. Yes, we’ve all seen the quotes about how being a friend to someone who is depressed is one of the most noble things you can do etc etc etc, but the reality? Depressed people are an absolute pain in the face. We forget that other people have stuff going on. We’re scatty. We’re moody as fuck. We’re pretty much hopeless when it comes to being in any way useful or productive. We’re rubbish company. All of those reasons are why I don’t like to talk about it, or about how I’m feeling. I can write about it, you can choose whether or not to read it and it will have little or no impact on your life. But I wouldn’t choose to spend time with me when I’m depressed because I am incredibly hard work. If there was a way I could avoid me when I get in this frame of mind, believe me, I would use it.
I realise that what I’m about to say flies in the face of pretty much everything I’ve ever written, said or done, but here’s the thing – for me, for the stage I’m at, talking doesn’t help. Maybe if I was ‘just’ depressed, it would be different. But I’m not. I’m depressed with a thorny borderline twist. I’m not allowed to talk to a professional in case I get too attached. It’s as if all the work I did with Therapist over the years has been turned on its head. I’ve always been encouraged to ask for help, to allow people to support me. But I got over reliant. It’s such a glorious irony – I feel like where I am now is proving what I’ve been thinking all along – don’t trust people. Don’t rely on them. Because I’ll get too needy, I’ll say/do the wrong thing, and they’ll go away. Case in point? Therapist.
I don’t want to keep talking to friends and family about this because to be fair, there are only so many times they want to have the same conversation, and rightly so. I’ve done everything I was supposed to do. I engaged in therapy. I take my drugs. I try to look after myself. But now, when I feel like I need help, I can’t ask for it. So instead, I’m going to have to give myself a timely root up the arse, stop feeling sorry for myself and snap out of it. Yup, I said it. Snap. Out. Of. It.