Please Do Not Compare Your Depression To Mine

Please Do Not Compare Your Depression To Mine

It's personal and real, it shouldn't be romanticized.

Throughout my freshman year of college I struggled with a lot of things--becoming independent, doing my own laundry, and getting up for 8 a.m. classes. But I handled those. What I hadn't anticipated during my first year was the bouts of anxiety, the anger I had for feeling that way, and my depression.

I had never really experienced any of those before. I was used to a difficult work load while juggling a job and social life, so it started off as what I believed to be my stress from school. Usually during the winter, I dealt with seasonal depression, craving the suns attention when everything stayed grey for awhile. And as for the anger, that was all new and something I am still realizing that led me to what I am trying to understand about myself.

But please, do not compare your depression to mine. I'm not trying to say that my depression is more important or more real than yours. Or that my panic attacks aren't as intense or my anxiety isn't as scary. I'm asking you to please not put our feelings as equal. I can't even find words to describe mine, much less compare to someone else's. I know that when you say, "I've been there before," you are trying to soothe me, but I don't believe that you know exactly where I have been. Its contradicting, not supportive.

I am sure that you have experienced your own types of depression, separate and very different from mine, but also real. I know that. I just have trouble thinking that you went through it exactly how I did. And saying you had it a lot worse, doesn't make mine any less worse. I want a friend, a listener, someone to confide in. Not someone who debates on how much more they went through, how much worse it was for them than for me, or who really hasn't ever dealt with it and tries to say that they have.

I just want someone there.

Please, do not compare your depression to mine. No two people handle it, feel it, or express it in the same way. And thats okay. I don't want you to pretend that you know exactly what I'm going through, I don't pretend that I do for you. I don't want you to compare your depression to mine, no matter how trivial mine might seem in the scheme of things, I understand that you have been through dark mindsets as well. Depression is not something to be romanticized.

So please, do not compare my depression to yours. We can talk about our own hardships and obstacles, our own ways of dealing with it, and our own thoughts on it. But we can't compare ours because depression is not something you can compare. Anxiety is not something you can compare. Anger is not something you can compare. Or at least, something you would want to.

Its personal and real, its a part of you. Please, do not compare your depression to mine.

Cover Image Credit: Maddi Burns

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3 Reasons Why Step Dads Are Super Dads


I often hear a lot of people complaining about their step-parents and wondering why they think that they have any authority over them. Although I know that everyone has different situations, I will be the first to admit that I am beyond blessed to have a step dad. Yep, I said it. My life wouldn't be the same that it is not without him in it. Let me tell you why I think step dads are the greatest things since sliced bread.

1. They will do anything for you, literally.

My stepdad has done any and every thing for me. From when I was little until now. He was and still is my go-to. If I was hungry, he would get me food. If something was broken, he would fix it. If I wanted something, he would normally always find a way to get it. He didn't spoil me (just sometimes), but he would make sure that I was always taken care of.

SEE ALSO: The Thank You That Step-Parents Deserve

2. Life lessons.

Yup, the tough one. My stepdad has taught me things that I would have never figured out on my own. He has stood beside me through every mistake. He has been there to pick me up when I am down. My stepdad is like the book of knowledge: crazy hormonal teenage edition. Boy problems? He would probably make me feel better. He just always seemed to know what to say. I think that the most important lesson that I have learned from my stepdad is: to never give up. My stepdad has been through three cycles of leukemia. He is now in remission, yay!! But, I never heard him complain. I never heard him worry and I never saw him feeling sorry for himself. Through you, I found strength.

3. He loved me as his own.

The big one, the one that may seem impossible to some step parents. My stepdad is not actually my stepdad, but rather my dad. I will never have enough words to explain how grateful I am for this man, which is why I am attempting to write this right now. It takes a special kind of human to love another as if they are their own. There had never been times where I didn't think that my dad wouldn't be there for me. It was like I always knew he would be. He introduces me as his daughter, and he is my dad. I wouldn't have it any other way. You were able to show me what family is.

So, dad... thanks. Thanks for being you. Thanks for being awesome. Thanks for being strong. Thanks for loving me. Thanks for loving my mom. Thanks for giving me a wonderful little sister. Thanks for being someone that I can count on. Thanks for being my dad.

I love you!

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Batter Up

Because someone needed to teach her rotten boyfriend a lesson about how to treat a woman.


I have this memory from when I was younger,

I must have been six, maybe seven? An age

When you can remember, but not quite

Understand. I remember the landline

Ringing sometime in the middle

Of the night in my grandmother's small,

But adequate house. I had been sleeping,

Tucked under a shield of satin covers,

My grandmother next to me, blanketless,

And stiff, on the very edge of the queen mattress

Like she was anticipating some sort of disaster.

It wasn't the phone that pulled me from my sleep,

It was my grandmother's instant jerk, her eyes

Flipping open quicker than a light switch,

The mattress springing back up, adjusting

To the new lightness as she fled the room. My waking

Was soft like a song. Slow and humane.

My eyes adjusting to the dark, my ears absorbing the ringing,

My mind reminding itself that I was at my grandmother's house.

Then, the ringing stopped;

Abrupt, like a disarmed fire alarm.

It was just a drill, I thought.

But, then I heard the mumbling

From behind the door, panicked mumbling.

Rapid, like gunfire. My grandmother's Rs

Rolling down the hallway and under the door crack.

She only spoke Spanish when she was angry.

The call ended, my grandmother returned to the room,

Wrapped me in a blanket, and carried me into the night.

She buckled me into the backseat of her Toyota and said,

We were going to Auntie Mandy's house because someone

Needed to teach her rotten boyfriend a lesson about how to treat

A woman.

When we arrived at the house, we found the front door

Wide open, the house lights spilling out onto the porch.

A truck, I had seen once before, was parked a foot away

From the front door, aggressive. The truck had trampled

Over the dandelions and daisies, which lay wounded

In the front yard. A scene that begged for investigation.

My grandmother told me to stay put in my seat.

I watched as she walked to the back of the car, her normally pretty

Face turned straight, looked masculine. I watched as she pulled

Something wooden out of her trunk, then in her feline walk,

Approached the house. She turned to me, and I saw the

Baseball bat, immense in her female hands.

I slouched in my seat, the window above my head.

I never saw her go into the house.

I don't remember how long I sat,

Until the red and blue lights came.

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