When a wave of depression hits me, it’s positively crippling. I use the word crippling, rather than debilitating or disabling. After all, disabled people are still functional, have dignity, and overcome adversity to triumph. I am not just crippled, I am SEVERELY CRIPPLED beyond all sense and recognition when I am depressed. Crippled is a strong and ugly word with an equally strong and ugly connotation. Just like depression.
The show must go on.
I’m still a mother. I’m still a teacher. I’m still a wife. I still have to manage to function and be a member of the human race, despite how much it hurts.
What makes it harder to deal with is that I know that I have no good reason to feel the way I feel, which only perpetuates a total shame spiral. I have so many valid, important reasons to be happy, and just one that makes me unhappy: depression.
Not many people can tell how much I suffer internally, though I’d rather it be that way. That with each smile and everything say, no matter how minor it may seem, it taxes me. It’s all I can do to keep from collapsing in a giant, heavy heap. Sometimes, it’s a struggle just to breathe.
Stupid depression. Damn you. Damn you for sucking all the joy out of absolutely everything. How I wish I could just make you go away for good.
I look at the clock and wonder how on Earth I’m going to make it through the day. I do what I can; each hour I get through without caving into the depression demon feels like small victory… Until I realized that I have to repeat it twenty-three more times.
It feels like I’m continually running a marathon with a twisted ankle, day in and day out.
I somehow manage to stand upright and go through the motions, but despite all outward appearances, I am like the living dead on the inside at times like these.
I sigh. Somehow, I carry on.
But just barely.
This is depression.
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