This post is from someone I know. I never got an inkling all this was going on in her life, to all intents and purposes the facade of happiness always was on show. I finally knew some of the details when she asked me about my depression and how I fought it off. I still never knew as much as she has shared here until the post arrived in my inbox.
I am very proud of her for writing this, it would have been very difficult. Hopefully now though with it all written down it is all in the past…that is certainly my experience.
All the names in this story have been changed, but it is about depression and the effects on her. It takes a lot to fight depression, it takes even more to actually share it with others.
I remember the first time I ever really thought about killing myself. This wasn’t the half arsed, self indulgent idea that most of us have thought about once or twice in our teens. This was the deadly intention of a desperate individual before a last ditch attempt at saving a relationship that was surely but slowly, making me lose my will to live. It chilled me to the bone in a way I had never truly felt before, my closest glimpse of death. I think that no one who hasn’t felt it can really understand. I hope that you won’t ever have to understand.
Tossing and turning in the spare bedroom of a friend’s house with my head swimming in wine, it was my third stay there of a similar nature. I drifted everywhere then. My parent’s, my brother’s, four different best friends. My clothes were scattered all over town, though not in a dodgy way. They, who had all helped me pick up the pieces of myself each time I tried to leave him, only to have me escape away in the night to throw myself back into the meat grinder of Blake and his heinous toxicity. I wasn’t even with close friends that night. Everyone else was sick of me, you see. I saw myself through their eyes. Weak, unable to live without my pathetic excuse for a man. Didn’t I have any respect at all for myself? It made me sick.
Torn between indecision (a classic symptom of depression) I thought, ‘What if it doesn’t work out this time?’ I clung onto hope, you see. I cursed it’s eternal spring, coursing through my neurotic veins. ‘Well… well… if it doesn’t work out this time, I’ll just kill myself. Simple as that.’ After days of messages and flower deliveries to my work I texted him, right on midnight. His birthday. The start of our third year together.
I woke the next morning free from the cloying effect of wine (always a disappointment), with the familiar choking dread settling, the first thing I felt every morning – an impending sense of doom. And a double dose of Loxamine. I tripped on the cat on the first step downstairs, my head foggy. I fell the whole way down. I lay there for a few moments – as you always do after a nasty collision to check you haven’t broken yourself – the physical pain barely registering. I remembered my late night ultimatum. But gone was my resolve, I had to get to work. I dismissed the drunken memory, the wine dulling its intensity. I put it out of my mind, it was forgotten.
It had barely begun. Read more »