First of let me disclose that I have not in fact been diagnosed with depression. Officially. But according to google the symptoms of depression are:
Feelings of helplessness and hopelessness.
…Loss of interest in daily activities.
…Appetite or weight changes.
…Anger or irritability.
… Loss of energy.
Among others. But these are just words. You can generally bend and twist each of them until it you’ve convinced yourself you’re depressed when you’re the most happy go lucky person on earth. For me it’s more like this:
It’s looking down at the cheeseburger I’ve been craving for two days thinking, “Why am I eating this, I’m already a fat cow and it doesn’t even taste good.”
It’s being on my favorite roller coaster at my favorite amusement park thinking, “I can’t wait till I can go home and cry without making a huge scene”
It’s finally getting my husband to sit still long enough for me to fucking cuddle him and instead burying my face in his shoulder and sobbing because I can’t find the words to explain what’s wrong or the pain that constantly lives inside me.
It’s staring at the ceiling for 6 hours straight thinking about how my husband and baby would be better off if I killed myself so they wouldn’t have to know what a train-wreck I am.
It’s staying in bed for 14 hours because I can’t force myself to do anything besides feed my kid and change her diaper.
It can be looking at my baby playing on the ground and smiling at me when I just want to throw her out a fucking window and then crying because that’s fucking crazy and horrible and how could I even think such a thing?
It’s not wanting to go hang out with my friends, even though they haven’t seen me in a month, because I hate crowds and every-time I’m around people I spend the entire time plotting ways to escape and cry and hurt myself.
It’s looking in a mirror and seeing a fat, lumpy, mashed-potato-ey, cow even though my BMI is in the healthy range and everyone’s always commenting on how fast my baby weight came off.
It’s not being able to find one single little thing I like about myself.
It’s constantly trying to hide razors and knives so there’s always one close by even though I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore.
It’s using that razor I took out of a pencil sharpener and then sobbing because I’m so embarrassed and ashamed and I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my husband AGAIN.
It’s looking at the cigarette in my hand wondering how amazing it would feel to press it into my arm and feel the skin burn.
It’s thinking about how much better my family and the world would be with out a broken, crazy, me to look after.
It’s wholeheartedly believing that it will never ever get better.
And it’s knowing that I’m sick while simultaneously knowing that I’ll never go to a doctor because that’s admitting that I need help, and I’ve been taught my entire life that asking for help is NOT an option.