I’m afraid of depression.
I’m afraid it will come back one day.
I’m afraid to use the word in reference to myself.
I’m afraid because depression almost killed me.
I’m afraid because I didn’t know why I was so depressed.
I’m afraid because I wasn’t aware how close I was to killing myself.
I’m afraid that depression has left deep scars on my mind that will take time to heal.
But I know that I can’t be afraid to talk about it.
Not talking about how I was really feeling is what let me wander through the woods until I was so lost I couldn’t find my way back.
Not talking about how I felt is what caused the years of repression that I still feel today. The years that knotted my mind with their insidious defense mechanisms. Being emotionally dead but calling it ‘stoic.’ Giving no fucks but actually suffocating in apathy. Seeming fearless when really I had given up on trying to live.
I’m ready to talk about it. I’m still hurting but those times are distant enough, like some sort of sad, strange dream that I can begin to reflect.
I need to talk about it. I grow distant, speechless and my eyes well up when I think about the past, but I have not properly grieved. I have felt the need to cry for months now but, the tears never come. The barriers in my mind have been trained to carefully scrutinize any inbound stimulus and any outbound emotion. I have forgotten how to feel and it’s taking time to learn to open up to my emotions again.
As much as I recognize what those long sleepless nights were about in retrospect, I feel as if I haven’t properly internalized them. There’s a difference between knowing what they were about and admitting to yourself how bad things were. Writing this post helps.