It felt like I had a turtleneck sweater on. I clawed at my throat to pull away the tight, heavy fabric suffocating me, but there was nothing there. In fact, I was just out of the shower and unclothed, inhibited by nothing but my imagination.
And then it happened again the next day.
I have heard time and time again that depression is a black dog that does not leave you alone, but I don’t see a dog. Actually, I don’t see anything, and that’s why I am not entirely sure I can call myself depressed.
On any given day, at least two or three times a day, I anticipate something horrible about to happen. My heart races, my throat tightens, my head makes a sudden jolt, and then my eyes well up with tears. It’s a constant battle of wondering whether or not something is actually wrong or if my psyche is making things up. This devilish dance where at any point in time I feel like I suddenly don’t exist on the earth.
That’s what anxiety is like.
When people ask me how I’m doing, I usually laugh, shrug, and say, “Stressed, but you know.” Except they don’t know, and somehow I have convinced myself that they do and that they should understand what’s happening in my confused little head. It is an unfair advantage I have granted to people and something I have grown to be aggravated about when they do not.
And it will happen tomorrow.
I have not grown to expect much of anything except that I will inevitably become upset about something. I know I am not alone in this, but I almost wish I was. Everyone who comes from a similar place does not come from the same place, and therefore does not have the answer I want, even if it’s the answer I need.
“Go talk to someone. They can help you. They can give you medicine for this.”
I know they can, but I don’t necessarily want them to. Someone close to me took an anti-depressant once and described her experience as suddenly going from feeling like the world was literally crushing her, to feeling entirely numb. And this is not what I want. I want to feel, even if it makes me insane.
Chalk it up to cowardice or the joy of self-loathing, but I cannot bring myself to ask for help — yet. I wear my emotions the way I wear bracelets and am proud of the fact that I am not afraid to talk about how I feel. I self-soothe with healthy doses of crying and deep breathing, and wait for the day that maybe I cannot help myself anymore.
That day will come. I am not sure when, but it will. I'm not ready for it, but really, is anyone? Admitting there's something wrong mentally feels like admitting that the last 24 years of my life have been a carefully constructed play that no one was really invited to but that everyone happened to see.
Accepting my weakness is not my strong suit. Maybe one day it will be, but not now. Maybe one day I'll find a way free from the fabric noosed around my neck. Maybe I will go one night without a recurring night terror. Maybe a lot of things.
For now, I know that tomorrow my heart will race and that I will force myself through it because I am stubborn and proud, but mostly, because I am not ready to admit defeat, even if defeat means healing.
