Those who deal with SAD may understand this, but maybe you also have to have Bipolar Disorder, or maybe just Be Me (disorder) – though the day went pretty well and I was happy making other people – kids especially happy – I am sitting here struggling with throat-clogging depression and searingly painful thoughts of suicide. I’m looking up “hope” on Instagram for inspiration. It’s not helping.
Why am I sad? In part, I struggle with depression every day once the weather turns cold and the days turn short and gray. And, that leaves me susceptible to melancholy over things like loneliness, being single, being unmarried, being childless, having no dog, only working part-time, having my Medicaid threatened because I earn $25.99 too much per month, owing thousands of dollars, not being able to pay my bills, being overweight, out of shape, and ugly…
I’m tired. Tired of being not right. Tired of fighting. Tired of being at war with my own brain and emotions. And always doing it alone.
I’ve been to more doctors and therapists and nurses, psychologists, internists, and GPs – have tried tens of different medications – been taken off meds, sent to support groups with rules I didn’t know but was penalized for breaking – have had people suggest diets, extreme exercise (marathon training), oils, supplements – none have fixed me. I’ve even checked myself into the hospital – hated that. Wasn’t anything like I’d envisioned (and the “back rooms” where we were locked in without shoes or belts or shower curtains or pencils were much uglier than the front rooms where I signed myself in). I’m still fucked up.
I don’t know. I love my family. But, I’m not sure if I’m actually loveable. People seem to like me – but not for long. The one man who loved me is the man I divorced. Friends – girlfriends, guy friends – either outgrow me or decide I’m too much…something. And I’m more “me” these days than I’ve been in 20 some years.
My therapist, whom I usually adore, said to me a few months ago, when I was telling her how I’ve felt lonely and awkward and not good enough even as a very young child, that maybe the other kids could sense my depression and were wary because of it. I hate that she said that. It makes me feel like I’ve been doomed – I never had a chance. It wouldn’t have mattered how skinny I was or pretty or smart. It wouldn’t have mattered how hard I tried because it was ME that they were rejecting all along. Me who was unacceptable. Me.
And usually kids are good judges, right? They’re “closest to Heaven” (a Romantic concept I have always liked – until now).
I’m sorry for burdening you, dear readers, whomever you be, with this. But I thank you – I can sleep now, hopefully sans tears. Xo