Some days, depression proves itself to be almost completely suffocating.
When I think about that sentiment, it seems like a strange thing to say, however, having been woken up to it staring me directly in the face, sitting on top of me--legs locking my waist to me bed and it's weight holding me down--the likeness to suffocating and drowning echoes far too familiarly.
For years I had tried to identify what exactly it was that seemed to be sitting on top of me each morning; restraining my arms and legs, leaving me confined to be bed, even though only momentarily. In that moment, however, regardless of how brief, time felt like it was moving at turtle’s pace and as though the experience was lasting an eon. The moment was swathed in thoughts of whether it might be worth it to get out of bed that morning or whether my existence for that day was necessary at all. “What are you going to do” I'd ask myself. “What is that going to add?”
The superpowers of depression would whisper at me and I would lay there, tears uncontrollably streaming down my face and my hands restrained so tightly that I couldn’t even find the strength to wipe them away. I would sit there, and I would cry.
The depression debilitated me. It scrambled my thoughts and made me even more fearful of judgment and ridicule than I already was. The experiences that brought me the gravest anxiety tended to be those that questioned my personal preferences and interests. Upon the onset of my depression, I experienced a withdrawal from my likings. When they say a symptom of depression is that you no longer find joy in the things you once loved and were passionate about, they're not lying. That, for me, has been one of the harder aspects of dealing with my diagnosis of bipolar disorder. During my episodes of depression the world seems to be a grey cloud that can offer me no leeway into the sunlight; and during my manic episodes, the sun seems to strike to me harshly.
When my depression came to being, it became difficult to identify things that I liked and enjoyed. As a child, my passions and hobbies were clear: I enjoyed gymnastics, poetry, writing and crafts. However, once the symptoms started appearing, I became very disconnected from those things and it became difficult to identify my “favourite” things. When I am approached by the question, “so what's your favourite color/movie/music/series,” I often found my tongue tied. I've come to acquaint myself with the response: “how can I pick one favourite thing when I think like so many of them or none of them at all,” as a way to deter the question.
However, I later realized that the response was true, or, at the very least, had become true. It became true because depression empties out who you are and begins to fill your entity with manufactured characteristics of “who you are” based on who you think you're supposed to be; and you assume these traits in order to silence the disheartening confusion that comes with it. Soon after, I found myself to be the embodiment of a plethora of these things that were completely uncharacteristic of who I thought I was...or who I used to be. Suddenly I was lazy, submissive, reserved, quiet, shy. I was soft spoken and a frequent substance abuser, although completely in control of it, of course.
Depression makes you lie to yourself; and you begin to lie so much so that you start to believe the falsehood you’re spewing. However, the one reality of my life that depression was able to accept and further aide was my love for the quiet and brisk, early hours of the morning. Amidst my diagnosis, I still loved the wee hours of the morning.
During my freshman year of college these were the hours during which I went on jogs to breathe fresh, quiet air and allow my thoughts to transcend beyond the buzz of the day that often times inhibited it. They were the hours during which the average human’s experiences called them to sleep, so bodies laid warm and snoring in their beds, leaving the streets empty and the air free of the noise that usually fills it. Those hours, the ones in which I found myself completely alone, unattached from any other person as their energies rested in standby, were the ones during which depression loosened her grip and allowed me to explore her, and myself, for all we were.
The idea of it sounds relatively scary, and I must say, the experience was equally so; but, like the saying, “it’s always best to face your demons,” the wee hours of the morning happened to offer the best arena for that. The setting proved to be ideal because I often found myself unable to fall asleep if sleep had not already been achieved by 2 a.m. Thereafter, it became a race with the sun as my eyes waited for the first spark of orange to touch the horizon, and in its timely fashion, command my body to get some shut eye. In the hours in between, my mind usually spilled out onto a sheet of paper.
Sometimes it finds itself in text, other times in images, and sometimes in a conglomerate of lines that don’t look like much, but happen to be so much more. The wee hours of the morning are my favorite, because during those hours, depression isn’t forcing herself onto me violently. Instead, she takes me into her arms to caress me, whisper that there is no other way, tell me that it’s never going to get better….and then let me go, freeing me; to explore the crevices of my own mind before I return to my empty, dead-eyed way of being. I guess the wee hours of the morning are my favorite because depression strikes a deal with me. She compromises so that I can lick the little surface of humanity I can tap into, even if only briefly.
Yet, most days, depression decides not to feast me with one of the few things I look forward to in my battle with it. Most days, depression decides to be cruel and feed into her power. I guess some days she has a bad day as well, and uses me to tackle her own demons. On those days, depression sits on top of me, knees on my chest, physically constricting my airways...and most days, I am unable to push her off of me. Most days, depression decides that she is going to be stronger than me and wraps her arms around my body, as though I am a carcass; with one hand around my neck and the other on top of my mouth.
Most days, depression almost completely suffocates me.
