In the past two weeks, I have quit my job; moved into a new
place; neglected the majority of my homework; spent hours lying in bed, spewing
negative self-talk and convincing myself that I’m worthless; cried more times
than I can count; called my mother and lied to her about being OK and convinced
her that she doesn’t need to worry about me; and contemplated who I should tell
first that I’m suffering from a crippling depression and that I need help.
It’s been a long time coming. I could see it a mile away, but couldn’t
prevent it from settling in. It’s like
when you know you’re getting sick, and it starts with a tickle in your
throat. You’re like, “Aw shit, I know
what this is. Nope, not gonna let it
happen. I will prevent myself from
getting sick through sheer will power!”
And so you do nothing. But then
the tickle turns into a cough, and the cough gets phlegmy and gross, and now
you’ve got snot running down your face, and your nose is raw from blowing it,
and you’re fatigued, and you want your mom, and you kind of just want to die
because you’re so miserable. Yep, that’s
exactly how it is, minus the germy secretions.
Depression made me
quit my job.
It’s all at once empowering and terrifying. [The depression gives it a fun twist.]
“I can do anything!!!
I’m a strong, independent woman, and I can do anything I set my mind
to! I am the creator of my own
destiny!!!”
“I can’t do anything.
I suck at everything. I can’t do
any of the things. I suck at life.”
The decision to quit my job was not an easy one, as there
was no right or wrong answer; it was more a matter of weighing the risks and
benefits. On the one hand, I have freedom
from the stress of my job that had resulted in a desperate lack of
self-care. I worried constantly that I
was going to get written up or fired at any given moment, and as a result, I
suffered physical ailments from work-related stress. Leaving my job allows me the opportunity to
put myself first- to develop an exercise routine, to seek counseling without
worrying about having to fight for a day off to make an appointment, to
dedicate more time to the activities I love and that bring such satisfaction to
me (writing, cooking, finger painting…).
On the other hand, I’m losing my biggest network of supporters. I’m losing the joy I get from working with my
kiddos on a daily basis. And of course,
I’m forfeiting my sole source of income.
My kids will never know how much I’m going to miss them, or how big of
an impact each has made on my life. I’m
going to miss all of their sweet faces, their personalities, quirks, and
behaviors. I’m going to miss the
snuggles, the laughs, the songs, and the dance parties. I’m going to miss this outlet for my need to
nurture.
I left this job with the hope that the next job will be just
as fulfilling, without the toxicity of my relationship with the current
management. But what if the next job
isn’t fulfilling? What if I have
sacrificed this amazing network of supporters for nothing? Worse yet, what if my friends forget about me
when I’m gone? Sure, we say that we’ll
keep in touch, but when the one thing we had in common- our job, and all the
joy and pain that comes with it- is no longer a shared activity, will they
really think of me when I’m not around?
I have a fear of being forgotten…
Had I been in a more stable mindset, I may not have decided
to quit my job. I would have stuck it
out, for better or for worse, until I found the next best thing. But getting up in the morning had become more
than just a chore, it was very nearly physically impossible some days, to the
point that I was tardy to work twice in the last month. I Just. Couldn’t. Do. It.
And now, thanks to my disheveled mental state, I don’t even
have the energy to engage in any of the self-care I had intended to begin once
my employment ended. I have no energy,
no motivation. I just want to sleep and
forget about everyone and everything…
Depression has me convinced
I have no purpose.
I’m battling social anxiety.
Me, the girl who never shuts up, suddenly can’t think of
anything to say. Striking up
conversation, even with people I know well, has become an insurmountable feat. The last few social events I attended
recently (including my own going-away party, hosted by my coworkers), I felt so
out of place. Someone could be
mid-conversation with me, but I would feel overwhelmed with anxiety and
convinced that no one actually wanted to talk to me, so I would just sit there,
spacing out, not listening, not talking, not smiling, just… nothing.
It has immobilized me.
I can’t do anything, I can’t muster up the energy to read the assignment
for class, or take my homework out of the folder to work on it, or shower, or
even pick what music I want to listen to.
I just sit, thinking, not moving, wishing I could just give up on
everything with no consequences. Because
nothing seems like it even matters right now.
Who cares if I don’t do my homework?
What if I just drop out of school?
I’ll probably suck as a counselor anyway, why bother getting my degree? Why shower?
No one likes me anyway, what difference does it make if I’m a smelly,
disgusting mess? All the more reason for
people to avoid me. Who cares what music
I listen to? It’s all shit that’s
probably going to make me cry anyway. I
might as well listen to whales fucking in the ocean.
I hit a pretty
low point last weekend, while moving into Scott’s house. I was filled with negative emotions about the
move anyway, and I started to feel resentful that none of my friends (besides
Scott, of course) had even bothered to offer to help me move. I decided that it was because everybody hates
me and I have no friends. Of course,
that’s the only logical explanation.
When you’re a big, fat, stupid loser, people don’t want to associate
with you, and they sure as shit don’t want to help you move all of your crap.
My thoughts
transitioned from “I have no friends” to “Why do I exist? No one wants me here anyway.” The demonic voice of reason in my head, like a
fucked up Jiminey Cricket, convinced me that I am nothing but a burden, on
Scott, on my family, on every person I ever come in contact with. Nobody likes you, why should they? You are completely worthless. You don’t do anything right, you make
terrible life choices, you suck at life. The world would be a better place without you,
so do everybody a favor and fuck off, will ya?
When my sister
finally showed up to help me move, I was deep in the throes of
self-loathing. I sat on the bedroom
floor, surrounded by garbage bags filled with my belongings, sobbing
uncontrollably. I don’t want to exist any more. I
have repeated that statement in my mind more times than I can imagine, but this
was the first time I said it out loud.
My sister asked if I wanted to kill myself. Fuck no, woman, are you high?? I don’t have the energy for that and I
wouldn’t know how and it would probably hurt; I can only tolerate pain when
it’s delivered by a tattoo gun. (And the
occasional, sexually-charged hair pull.)
No, I don’t want to kill myself; I just don’t want to be here
anymore. I’m exhausted from feeling
every emotion, every day. I’m tired. I’m ready to be done.
But I keep getting up, every day, because I don’t have any
other choice. I hide my depression as
best I can, and stifle my sobs so the roomies don’t hear me. I lie to everyone about feeling well, and enjoying
school, and looking for a new job. I’m
barely getting by but goddammit, I’m getting by. I still exist, for better or for worse. It’s scary and painful to admit that I’m sad and broken
and dark and lost and exhausted and lonely and hurting and so very, very tired,
but I
just did it. And I finally
called to make a counseling appointment.
So there’s that.
