Forgive the desolate tone of this blog post. It’s one of those weeks.
Six months to a year. That’s what I was told when I asked how long I was to take the medications. Of course, that was just an optimistic estimate. But I still held on to that. “I’ll be fully recovered in a year,” I thought. “I’ll finally free of the darkness that made a home in my head.” I knew it would take much longer since I’ve had the depression undiagnosed and untreated for almost all my life. Let’s say, thirty one years. That’s thirty one years of darkness versus a year of recovery.
A year won’t cut it. Let’s be real, here. I knew that. I knew that it will take more than a year. But it was nice to think that after a year, I’ll be the me I should have been if it wasn’t for the depression.
In less than a month, it will have been a year since I started seeing a psychiatrist. It will have been a year since I’ve been taking anti-depressants. What’s changed since then? What’s happened since I first walked into the clinic?
I’m not gonna deny that there hasn’t been any progress. I’m not gonna deny that my accomplishments the past year has bested all my accomplishments the lifetime prior. As a matter of fact, I’ve done more since I sought treatment than I’ve done before that. Dreams came true. Fantasies became reality. The impossible became possible.
But on those bad days, all of that doesn’t matter. I’m still who I was. I’m still thinking about putting a gun to my head. Not as much as before, but I still do. I still doubt myself and what I do. I still loathe myself. I still want to disappear from the face of the earth. I still can’t control my emotions. Hell, I don’t even understand them most of the time. The anti-depressant is working, but it’s not working hard enough. Or maybe my head’s fighting it. Or maybe I haven’t fully strengthened my mental foundation. Or maybe I don’t really want to get better. Or maybe everything’s too much for me. Or maybe my accomplishments aren’t enough to make me feel good. Or maybe…
I’m turning thirty two in just a little over a month. I once feared being thirty two. That was my mother’s age when she killed herself. And then I felt okay with it. I even posted a whole entry about it. But here I am dreading reaching that age because…because I might end up doing the same thing she did. I know, I know. I’m not her. But that’s why I was rushing my recovery in the first place. I wanted to be fully recovered from depression before I reach thirty two.
But I’m still far far from full recovery. With how things are going now, what with me still being a bitch to my depression on bad days, I could still share the same fate.
Universe save me.