My name is Kiersten, and I have depression, lowercase d. I have never been given a diagnosis. I don't know if my feelings are symptoms of a Major Depressive Episode or Major Depressive Disorder, or if they are nothing more than a manifestation of my own inability to adapt well to change and stress. I don't know why I am the way I am, or why I feel the way I feel.
What I know is that there are days when I wake up and I don't feel like myself, and one day can become three days, then a week, then a week and a half, before I feel normal again. But sometimes it's just a day, and then I'm fine. What I know is that on those days I have no legitimate cause for feeling the way I do, so I make one up. In my own mind, the "cause" is very real, yet I can't say it out loud because to put it into words sounds ridiculous and foolish and unfair; unfair because usually the "cause" is another person who has no idea that what they've said or done, or not said or not done, is causing me pain.
What I know is that there are many nights when I cry myself to sleep after hours of ruminating upon the minor, trivial happenings of the day. I know they are minor and trivial because I have experienced these things many times before without reaction. At one point in my life, I made my own happiness. Now, it seems, I rely on others to make it for me.
What I know is that when I am crying myself to sleep, I do it quietly, or I wait for my husband to fall asleep so I can go in the other room where he won't hear me. I am quiet because I know he will ask what is wrong, and I will tell him nothing is wrong, I'm fine. He'll ask if I'm sure, and I'll say "Yes, I'm sure. I'm fine." And then I'll be upset when he believes me (or at least appears to) and goes back to living his own life, and I'll cry harder because he doesn't care, he doesn't love me. But of course he cares, because if he didn't why would he ask?
What I know is that on my bad days logical arguments don't make sense. I hear the truth in them, but I don't feel it and I don't believe it. I choose to remain in ignorance, to believe that I am alone in the world, that nobody understands and what's more, nobody wants to. It's not really a choice to believe these things. On my bad days, I feel incapable of accepting any reality other than the one that exists in my own mind.
What I know is that I can be having a perfectly wonderful day and my mood can shift at the drop of a pin. At times like these I become upset with myself. I feel like my own mind and body have turned on me. I berate myself for my inability to be happy when I have been given so much. I forcefully call to mind images and stories of other people who have had it far worse than I: Holocaust survivors, rape victims, people who have been wrongly imprisoned for more than half their life. I compare their stories with my life of comfort: the amazing family I grew up in, the husband who adores me, the A's I earn with ease, the basement apartment I live in for free. I wonder what's wrong with me.
What I know is that I punish myself for the way I feel. Food is a comfort, and so sometimes I don't eat even if I'm hungry. Reading and running and playing the piano bring me pleasure, so I don't do them. Instead I pull out my textbooks, and I study. I get all my assignments done for the week, and people praise me for being so on top of things. They think I have my life together, but really I have no interest in doing anything that will make me feel better. I don't want to be "cheered up". I lose myself in Netflix shows, getting lost in the characters and their lives, ignoring my own sorry existence. I take small comfort in the fact that in made-up worlds, everyone ends up happy.
What I know is that two months ago I checked myself into UVU's counseling service and last month was my first session. I have a therapist now, and I sit on a couch, and I tell her how I feel about things. I cry a lot. It's uncomfortable to me, and I don't like it. I don't like to talk about how I feel, I prefer to write it down. And maybe that's because when I write I can be exactly as dramatic as I like, but probably it's because when I write I can tell you exactly what I feel. And I feel depressed.
I don't tell you this because I want your pity, or because I want you to feel bad or sorry for me. I don't want to be anybody's poster child, and I don't want anybody to idolize me. I haven't accomplished the things I have in spite of my depression. I have accomplished them at times when I am not depressed.
In telling you this, I don't want you to think that I am in any way minimizing the experiences of those who have been given diagnoses, whose minds feel much more broken than mine. I salute those of you who experience these things every single day, and yet you don't give up. You keep going. In many ways I look up to you. I admire the tenacity that exists in your soul, the ability you possess to wake up each day and keep breathing.
I tell you this because I want you to be aware. I know of few people in this world who would look at me and think I am depressed. I do not act the way I feel. I smile when I don't want to and I behave in exactly the way people expect me to behave. I'm willing to bet that I am not the only one.
I tell you this because I want you to be more kind, more loving, more inclusive, more friendly, more outgoing. I want to be the face to the statement "You never really know what anyone else is going through". You don't know. You didn't know how I experience life until I told you, and you don't know what anyone else is dealing with. So be kind. Think before you speak. Be aware.
And if you're like me, if you smile when you want to cry and do everything you're supposed to when you just want to sleep all day, I want you to be aware that you are not alone. There are more of us. Your depression is not who you are. I know this because it's not who I am. I am so much more.
If you are like me, speak up. Tell your story. Help make others aware of the prevalence of mental illness, and help end the stigma surrounding it. We are all different, and we all have different challenges. Many find it challenging to be happy, and there is no shame in that. Speak up, ask for help, tell your story, and help others be aware.
Mental illness is very serious, and it is very real, and I think it needs to be talked about more. My hope for the future is that everyone will be able to openly, comfortably share their feelings and experiences without judgment, criticism, or shame. I hope one day people can be sure of their stories being received with love and compassion and kindness. I hope one day no one will be afraid to ask for help, and everyone will feel that it is within their power to live a truly happy life.
That day is not today, but it can be. It starts with me, and you. Whether you experience mental illness or not, speak out. End the stigma. Start the conversation. Listen to each other. Most of all, be kind. You never know what someone else is going through.
What I know is that there are days when I wake up and I don't feel like myself, and one day can become three days, then a week, then a week and a half, before I feel normal again. But sometimes it's just a day, and then I'm fine. What I know is that on those days I have no legitimate cause for feeling the way I do, so I make one up. In my own mind, the "cause" is very real, yet I can't say it out loud because to put it into words sounds ridiculous and foolish and unfair; unfair because usually the "cause" is another person who has no idea that what they've said or done, or not said or not done, is causing me pain.
What I know is that there are many nights when I cry myself to sleep after hours of ruminating upon the minor, trivial happenings of the day. I know they are minor and trivial because I have experienced these things many times before without reaction. At one point in my life, I made my own happiness. Now, it seems, I rely on others to make it for me.
What I know is that when I am crying myself to sleep, I do it quietly, or I wait for my husband to fall asleep so I can go in the other room where he won't hear me. I am quiet because I know he will ask what is wrong, and I will tell him nothing is wrong, I'm fine. He'll ask if I'm sure, and I'll say "Yes, I'm sure. I'm fine." And then I'll be upset when he believes me (or at least appears to) and goes back to living his own life, and I'll cry harder because he doesn't care, he doesn't love me. But of course he cares, because if he didn't why would he ask?
What I know is that on my bad days logical arguments don't make sense. I hear the truth in them, but I don't feel it and I don't believe it. I choose to remain in ignorance, to believe that I am alone in the world, that nobody understands and what's more, nobody wants to. It's not really a choice to believe these things. On my bad days, I feel incapable of accepting any reality other than the one that exists in my own mind.
What I know is that I can be having a perfectly wonderful day and my mood can shift at the drop of a pin. At times like these I become upset with myself. I feel like my own mind and body have turned on me. I berate myself for my inability to be happy when I have been given so much. I forcefully call to mind images and stories of other people who have had it far worse than I: Holocaust survivors, rape victims, people who have been wrongly imprisoned for more than half their life. I compare their stories with my life of comfort: the amazing family I grew up in, the husband who adores me, the A's I earn with ease, the basement apartment I live in for free. I wonder what's wrong with me.
What I know is that I punish myself for the way I feel. Food is a comfort, and so sometimes I don't eat even if I'm hungry. Reading and running and playing the piano bring me pleasure, so I don't do them. Instead I pull out my textbooks, and I study. I get all my assignments done for the week, and people praise me for being so on top of things. They think I have my life together, but really I have no interest in doing anything that will make me feel better. I don't want to be "cheered up". I lose myself in Netflix shows, getting lost in the characters and their lives, ignoring my own sorry existence. I take small comfort in the fact that in made-up worlds, everyone ends up happy.
What I know is that two months ago I checked myself into UVU's counseling service and last month was my first session. I have a therapist now, and I sit on a couch, and I tell her how I feel about things. I cry a lot. It's uncomfortable to me, and I don't like it. I don't like to talk about how I feel, I prefer to write it down. And maybe that's because when I write I can be exactly as dramatic as I like, but probably it's because when I write I can tell you exactly what I feel. And I feel depressed.
I don't tell you this because I want your pity, or because I want you to feel bad or sorry for me. I don't want to be anybody's poster child, and I don't want anybody to idolize me. I haven't accomplished the things I have in spite of my depression. I have accomplished them at times when I am not depressed.
In telling you this, I don't want you to think that I am in any way minimizing the experiences of those who have been given diagnoses, whose minds feel much more broken than mine. I salute those of you who experience these things every single day, and yet you don't give up. You keep going. In many ways I look up to you. I admire the tenacity that exists in your soul, the ability you possess to wake up each day and keep breathing.
I tell you this because I want you to be aware. I know of few people in this world who would look at me and think I am depressed. I do not act the way I feel. I smile when I don't want to and I behave in exactly the way people expect me to behave. I'm willing to bet that I am not the only one.
I tell you this because I want you to be more kind, more loving, more inclusive, more friendly, more outgoing. I want to be the face to the statement "You never really know what anyone else is going through". You don't know. You didn't know how I experience life until I told you, and you don't know what anyone else is dealing with. So be kind. Think before you speak. Be aware.
And if you're like me, if you smile when you want to cry and do everything you're supposed to when you just want to sleep all day, I want you to be aware that you are not alone. There are more of us. Your depression is not who you are. I know this because it's not who I am. I am so much more.
If you are like me, speak up. Tell your story. Help make others aware of the prevalence of mental illness, and help end the stigma surrounding it. We are all different, and we all have different challenges. Many find it challenging to be happy, and there is no shame in that. Speak up, ask for help, tell your story, and help others be aware.
Mental illness is very serious, and it is very real, and I think it needs to be talked about more. My hope for the future is that everyone will be able to openly, comfortably share their feelings and experiences without judgment, criticism, or shame. I hope one day people can be sure of their stories being received with love and compassion and kindness. I hope one day no one will be afraid to ask for help, and everyone will feel that it is within their power to live a truly happy life.
That day is not today, but it can be. It starts with me, and you. Whether you experience mental illness or not, speak out. End the stigma. Start the conversation. Listen to each other. Most of all, be kind. You never know what someone else is going through.
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