I decided to write this post in the shower.
When I say that, I mean I made the decision in the shower, not that I brought my new MacBook (which my depression lied about already today) into the shower with me to write it. I went into the shower to cry because I thought it would hurt less than crying on my living room chair.
It didn’t, but I’m clean now and my hair smells really good, so fuck you, depression.
I know my depression is lying to me, but it feels like the truth. It feels like the truest truth ever told, and that’s scary. Because intellectually, I know it’s all lies. This is the first lie my depression told me: to trust my gut. I can’t trust my gut today, because depression lives there too.
My depression told me that I would just throw up anything I eat, so why bother? My depression has a friend called disordered eating and they hang out sometimes. I used to be friends with disordered eating too, but we parted ways a few years ago. I haven’t eaten anything today. I drank half a cup of coffee, and I feel sick, and I hurt so much that taking one of those deep calming breaths makes me want to throw up.
But I know my depression is lying to me, so I’m going to eat while I finish writing this post.
I tried to tell my depression about the good things in my life, so it would see its own lies. I told it about my awesome family, and it told me if they really knew me, if they really saw me like I see myself, they wouldn’t love me.
That lie hurts probably the most because it’s a half-truth. Thank fucking god nobody else sees me the way I see myself right now, right? Because I’m only seeing myself through depression-colored glasses, and I don’t like myself. But that’s all a lie too. Depression can be clever like that. Using its own lies to trick me into believing more of them.
I tried to tell my depression about my career as a writer and how much joy it brings me—and depression told me it was just an accident, I didn’t deserve it, and someday I would wake up to discover everyone was really laughing at me. Then, depression giggled a little bit and told me: Maybe even today. Go read some one star reviews of your books. I’ll wait. My depression thinks I’m a masochist, and maybe it’s right, because I went along with it. I also read some five star reviews of my books, and depression told me those people were lying. I closed the tab and resolved not to read any more book reviews ever again.
Okay, I lied too.
Depression likes to make me feel bad about being depressed. Depression told me I don’t deserve to be depressed. It told me that since my life was so great, I should just get over myself and get out of the shower and stop fucking crying already, WHY ARE YOU STILL CRYING IF YOUR LIFE IS SO GOOD? You have a good life, you have friends, you’re healthy. Other people have cancer. Other people fight in wars. Other people are fleeing wars. Children and puppies die in horrible ways and you know this because you saw photos on Facebook. How DARE you think you have the right to hurt?
Depression gives good guilt trip.
But that’s a lie too.
Depression isn’t a person. Does not have a voice. Cannot be argued with in the shower.
Depression is brain chemistry, and it’s not about how good or bad other people’s lives are. It’s about my brain, and the guilt trip is a lie. I feel this way because this is how my brain works, and it has nothing to do with anything happening out there in the world.
It’s just my brain.
Depression told me this blog post is stupid.