Sometimes, I have this feeling of being capable to save every person struggling in his life. Sometimes, I have this feeling of being incapable to get up from bed.
Sometimes, I think I am able to achieve great things. Sometimes, I think I do not mean anything at all.
Sometimes, I like to listen to and observe my surrounding. Sometimes, I like to stay indoors and cover myself with a huge blanket.
Sometimes, I know myself enough. Sometimes, I know there is more to me. Sometimes, I know I am way less than I often think of myself.
There is no definite and precise moment to determine if ‘the depression kicks in’. I don’t even admit this is exactly depression; I tell myself this must be hormonal surges brought about by my period. The latter is a more acceptable explanation, one I like to believe in, one I like to live up, and one I like people to label me with…except it isn’t.
This isn’t a typical hormonal surge and a regular one. It isn’t the terrible feeling I get after arguing with my significant other or a friend. It isn’t a mere sense of discouragement and being not good enough. I can’t even tell its actual intensity and accurate magnitude. What I’m sure of is how it affects my normal activities.
But what I want other people to know, especially those who are simply clueless or apathetic towards this mental condition, is that living with depression doesn’t directly mean I am sad all of the time. I am still functional. I am able to do things I usually do. Outwardly, I am completely fine. What I want them to know more about living with depression is that just because I seem perfectly fine and do things I usually do doesn’t mean there is nothing wrong within me. Living with depression entails emptiness inside no matter what I do. Living with depression pertains to feeling hollow whatever I hear and see from the surrounding. Living with depression is unintentionally being numb.
While other people, especially those I deem who should know more, label symptoms of depression as being dramatic, lazy, and a lot more stereotypes, they are beyond my control really, after I finally have the sheer courage to acknowledge and eventually accept them as signals of help. There are others who will rather say to get over with ‘feeling down almost all of the time’ as easy as we shrug off an annoying fly. However, they do not realize that the annoying fly is me.
How I truthfully live with depression is by putting up a seemingly hard, sarcastic, and unbreakable guard, a wall to fend off ignorant intruders and the superficial succor. I cannot blame those who are sensitive towards my mask. I feel sorry for them for knowing least about this rather rampant and pervasive, sometimes uncured, mental illness.
Mabel Shaira 