Today has been a particularly gloomy day for me. One of those days in which there is not an explanation for my morose and apathetic demeanor. One of those days in which I am reminded that I do, indeed, suffer from depression. I woke up this morning and decided that today is the day that I make my short story about my depression available for anyone to read. Below is the first chapter of  “depression.” by yours truly.

Chapter 1: A Daily Dose of Depression

I could stare at my buzzing alarm clock for hours. I worry about waking a neighbor, so I turn it off and crawl back to my safe and warm bed. I even put it all the way across the room to force myself to “wake up” and turn it off. That doesn’t always work for me, though, because it hurts to be awake. I think that if I could just hit snooze and get nine more minutes of comfort in my bed, I’ll be fine. Nine minutes isn’t ever enough, I don’t understand why my phone alarm is convinced that it is.

When I wake up, I feel trapped in my bed. I tell myself to move my body, but I can’t move because it hurts, and I don’t want to. Imagine laying down and having a metric shit ton of bricks placed on your chest. You can still breathe, but it’s hard. Sometimes, it’s almost impossible to breathe. I can’t speak because that requires more oxygen than I can manage. I fight back against any movement towards getting out of bed. It is so comfortable underneath the covers. So safe. “The world will wait for you,” I tell myself. “You need that extra hour of rest, don’t worry, no one will notice that you didn’t have time to comb your hair or wash your face.” Honestly, I’d rather have an extra hour to look and feel put together because it helps my confidence, but my brain doesn’t care what I want. My brain convinces me that getting out of bed early will cause more pain than resting for just a little while longer.

At the last possible moment, I slink out from under my covers and stumble to the bathroom. I simultaneously brush my teeth while choosing the easiest outfit to wear so I won’t be late to work, school, life, or whatever else I must slap a smile on my face to do.

I’m lucky that even with depression I haven’t lost my ambition. I’m passionate about doing good work and hate being late. What I hate more is giving off the impression that I don’t take my responsibilities seriously. I also love being the boss’s or teacher’s favorite and I need to be on time if I want the pet perks. I take my Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI) and my Bupropion, which helps balance the noradrenaline and dopamine in my brain. I like to call these my happy pills. I also take caffeine in the form of three nice, hot cups of espresso. I’ve tried to convince my doctor to prescribe me caffeine, but she isn’t convinced. Jokes on her, I can find that shit over the counter.

When I make it out the door, I usually manage to suck in some of the surrounding energy. Thanks nature. Perhaps it’s the vitamin D from the sun. Maybe it’s the crisp morning air. Or maybe I know there is something exciting happening that day, so I get some warm, fuzzy feelings inside. I try to ride the little “high” from my caffeine as long as possible. I usually make it to lunch time without too many problems. Then I get to face my interesting relationship with food. Extreme lack of confidence is an important characteristic of my depression. Just because I’m open, doesn’t mean I love the way I look. On my low confidence days, I fight the hunger. I’ll definitely eat lunch, but I don’t usually eat enough because I want to feel good in my clothes which never seem to fit “just right”. When I don’t eat enough, much like most people, I crash hard. The caffeine high has subsided and even though I still have so many things to do, all I can do is daydream about my bed. This feeling of exhaustion causes a “mental storm”, which I’ll define as a twister of negative emotions. My first thought when I feel tired halfway through the day is, “I knew you couldn’t do it.” Then comes the imposterism, “Why the hell am I here? Don’t my colleagues realize that I’m actually a complete idiot and I must have just gotten lucky my whole life to get to this point?” It isn’t uncommon for me to feel this way for the rest of my work or school day.

When I get home, I realize just how exhausting it was to do everything I did that day. My brain is done, and I feel lonely. I want to be surrounded by people that seem to think I’m important, but I can’t even fathom seeing another person. There is no energy to talk or try. No. More. Energy. Unless alcohol is involved, but I can’t do that to myself on weekdays. Instead, I curl up in bed with some Netflix so my 2-dimensional friends can entertain me. Would I rather read? Yes. Would I rather not bail on my friend that wanted to go to trivia? Yes.

On the weekends, I find myself in a constant state of exhaustion. I remember when I was in my earlier 20s and I would go on outdoor adventures EVERY weekend. How did I have the energy to do that? Maybe I got burned out. I want to lie in my bed all day and watch the wall during the weekends now. I don’t even want to get up to grab my laptop or phone or a book. I’ll have to change position and be uncomfortable again. The comfort of lying in bed is the only thing that gives me warm, fuzzy feelings inside these days. I’m so tired on the weekends because I had to work so hard to be halfway pleasant during the week. I had to smile and interact with my colleagues. I had to look normal so they wouldn’t ask me if something is wrong. Nothing is wrong, other than the chemical imbalance in my brain. Everything sucks, but I don’t want to bring other people down with me. It’s easier to pretend to be happy than it is to show how miserable I really am.

For the longest time, I thought that when I didn’t want to do something productive it was because of laziness. I think the difference between being lazy and depressed is the emotional turmoil that depression puts me through when I don’t do something productive. I am my own punching bag for every negative thought I have about myself. I beat myself repetitively with cruel comments and thoughts. When I can’t be productive, my mind hates me. I literally see myself differently when I look in the mirror. I feel ugly inside and out and I’m so fucking mean to myself. “You’re a waste of space,” I tell myself. “Everyone will realize that you’re nothing, soon enough,” I remind myself. I would literally never say any of those things to another human being, but I have no problem saying them to myself. Sometimes, when I am actually smiling for no reason and feeling happy, I all of the sudden feel stupid for not being miserable. I feel like I actually look like a complete idiot for having a smile on my face, just because. That’s a shitty feeling.