I have a friend, the kind of person you wish wasn’t in your life. You
know the type: someone who’s been in your life for as long as you remember, but
not in the good way. Instead of hours of childhood bliss spent wiling away the
hours you’re still able to kill, there is no giggling fun and lighthearted
dream spinning. Instead all you ever remember is every bad thing this person
said or did to you, how shitty they made you feel, and how mad they still make
you.
For the sake of this story let’s call my friend Debs. I don’t know why
I keep letting Debs come around. She’s dead weight and I should tell her to hit
the road. Still she comes around and I can’t say no. I let her come in and I listen – to everything. She tells me how incompetent I am. I can’t do my job,
not at all – according to her. I won’t accomplish my dreams, so why try. When
Debs comes to stay she takes a perverse pleasure in wrestling me down and
making me realize that I’m empty. She won’t listen either, not about my loving
husband, my good job, the wonderful house I live in. She shakes her head,
disregards everything I have that’s beautiful and wonderful in my life. Then
she tells me I’m empty. That I have nothing. That I am nothing. And there’s no
point in even trying to change any of it because I am a pretty useless mediocre
person. When she says all this, I nod slowly. I can feel the way my stomach
dips, the sinking hopelessness in my middle where there should be something to
hold onto, something to make me feel real.
The worst part about Debs, is I feel like I can’t really tell anyone
about her. A guilt looms over me whenever I see the very things I tried to show
Debs so futilely moments ago. How can I complain when I have so much? How can I
be such a horrible person to dare to be unhappy when so many more have it
worse?
In these moments I’m so sure that Debs is right – about everything. I
can feel myself sinking into a nothingness I almost embrace. It isn’t until
much later that I realize something very important. Debs is a cunt. That’s
right, I said it. She’s a self-serving bitch who takes advantage of my every insecurity
and I seriously need to throw her out on her ass.
Now I’m going to tell you something else. Debs isn’t a real person. I
made her up. But she is very real to me because she lives inside me. Debs is my
depression. She makes me feel horrible, alone, useless, worthless. It takes a
lot of time, practice, and love from those around me before I can tell Debs to
fuck off.
For those of you who have your own Debs, you are not alone. And though
your depression might make you feel ashamed, don’t believe that bitch.
Depression isn’t something you should be ashamed of. Every life is fit for the person
who lives it, every good and bad thing unique to that person. We are allowed to
feel pain, and let others know and understand it. As much as I’d love to say
that this is a success story, where I tell depression to tuck and roll as I
kick her out of a moving car – I’m not going to be a liar. Depression will
probably always be a part of me, waiting to prey on me when I least expect or
want it. Maybe it’s a part of my brain chemistry – or maybe it’s just me. But I
won’t let depression win – and I hope neither will you.
Maybe this bad friend has come to visit you lately so I want you to
know a few things. You are loved. You have a lot going for you. Depression is a
dirty lying whore. But most of all, it’s okay to be upset, to be sad, and to
let people know. I hope you can tell your depression to fuck off soon.
So here goes everything – fuck off Debs. *slams door*
