Comes With Sprinkles

Because everything is better with sprinkles

Big Girls DO Cry

I’ve had this post sitting in my head for weeks and weeks. Then The Bloggess wrote about her very intimate struggle with depression over here and the burning need to get some of this off of my chest intensified. Then one of my very best girlfriends sent me a very sweet and concerned text message- afraid that I was back to self-harming.

Yes, I said back.

My struggle with depression isn’t something that I talk about a lot. If it comes out, it’s usually because it’s kicking my ass and I have to let it out in short little spurts of “I hurt!” and that’s all that I can handle. I don’t share well, much to my friend’s and my husband’s chagrin.

Depression for me isn’t necessarily being mopey all the time. I can switch on and off in a flash. Usually from on to off – the pepping up can take longer. Yeah, I can be sad, but I don’t show it in public. I don’t cry in front of my friends or my family. When Ana turned two, my parents had told me that they couldn’t make it to her birthday party and I was devastated, not that I’d let that show. When they surprised me by driving across two states and a border to show up announced to everybody but me, I cried and another one of my very best friends actually commented on the occasion, it was so rare. And we’ve been friends for fifteen years.

No, depression to me is self-loathing. It’s being so consumed with self-hatred and disgust with myself that I can’t think of anything else. It’s of wanting to curl up into a ball in my bed and moan because I will never amount to anything. It’s looking in the mirror and seeing rolls, or seeing the number on the scale, and wanting to smash the mirror with my fist so I never have to look at myself again. It’s looking at the clock and realizing it’s way past my bedtime and another day has passed where I have accomplished absolutely nothing.

It’s writing ten pages in my journal of slanty messy writing, documenting every failure in recent memory – and not being able to recall any successes. It’s sitting on the computer looking at my bank account on payday and wondering when I will EVER be able to not have to worry about how I’m going to pay all the bills.

Depression, to me, is a hatred so deep so that in my past I hurt myself. That in my past I almost put myself out with Ibuprofen capsules. It’s driving down the road and wishing I had the courage to swerve off the road and into oblivion. It’s sinking into myself and not knowing how to pull myself out.

I’m not really okay right now. I am hurting and I am hating and I’m not really sure what to do about it. This is probably the most that I’ve ever talked about it and these are only a few brief paragraphs that can’t even begin to delve into this. This isn’t a suicide note or even close. I’m not harming again. I won’t drive off the road. I value my daughter and my husband too much for that.

I just… hurt. And wish I was someone else.