“I don’t know what to attribute to the normal ebb and flow of life and natural mood shifts and what to attribute to bipolar.” — Delicate/Demanding
I made an appointment. The one that might kick me out of the deep, dark caverns of depression, back into the city of normalcy.
But the appointment means facing a huge fear.
I am constantly and forever worried that what I feel is normal or “normal” if you’d rather. I’m terrified that the majority of the world walks around feeling this devistation or worse every day — and I’m just the schmuck who’s not strong enough to shoulder the load and keep going.
I don’t remember a time when my life wasn’t tinted with absolute despair, and I’m not sure if that’s the Johnny-come-lately depression, or if this is something I’ve been dealing with for that long (but if I’ve had it for that long then why hasn’t anybody mentioned anything — but how would they know if I didn’t say anything — but I can’t be that good a pretender — etc.). When I was in the third grade — keep in mind that’s 7-8 years old — I tried to run away. My seven or eight year old self wanted to run away from the life I was leading. Enough to actually make a go of it.
We have this picture of Mom and Dad and A., my little brother. He’s not even a year old yet, and the three of them are all smiling into the camera. Every time I look at that picture, I think “They’re perfect together. They don’t need me.”
But I need them.
When I went away to school, I got… touch starved. No one touched me at school. I’d go home and I’d want to hug everyone and not stop, because I hadn’t had any human contact since the last time I was home.
Sometimes I ache to be one of those people who can casually touch. A pat on someone’s back, an arm around their shoulders, a hug of greeting. I get a thrill out of receiving all of these, but I’ll be damned if I know how to give them. So I don’t touch. At all.
I may have made a major mistake tonight. I told mom that I’d made the doctor’s appointment. And that I was going to look into getting back onto anti depressants. I waited right there for about fifteen minutes but she didn’t say another word to me. Not even goodnight.
She asked me to tell her if I ever started the medication again. I will NOT let her make me feel guilty about seeking the help I need.
I do need it. I do.
Please remind me of that, because I will forget.
