The worst part of depression isn’t being depressed. It’s knowing that there’s a breaking point in the horizon and there’s nothing you can do about it. It’s come to the point where I’ve reverted to childhood defense mechanisms. Quirks that I’ve locked away deep inside of me to appear “normal” on the surface. Things I haven’t thought about doing in over ten years are now surfacing in this preparation for the worst. Thing is, even though I’ve been this way for the majority of my life, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to the point where it scares and worries me.

The rule of thumb is you know you’re not crazy if you’re wondering if you’re crazy. Crazy people don’t know they’re crazy – they think themselves as the most sane people in the world. Looking forward on this path, I know that whatever waits for me is beyond anything I’ve ever endured before.

Being depressed – at least for me – doesn’t mean feeling sad all the time. Most days I don’t have any feelings at all. There are days when getting out of bed is a chore. Then there are days when the happiness feels like it’ll last. Days when the world sets off to annoy me. I prefer the days when I’m numb. When nothing sets me off and nothing can frustrate me. When the tears don’t just act like a leaky faucet.

When I started attending counseling meetings, a service provided to students at the college (if not all colleges) I attended, the first thing I told the counselor who I’d be seeing for the remaining three years of my college career was, “No pills.” I was willing to try anything she threw my way, but not antidepressants. She agreed to respect my wishes.

“Oh, and no mantras, either. I always feel silly looking at myself in the mirror and repeating words.”

She didn’t respect the latter wish.

In my search for balance, because I’ve accepted I’ll never be a full on “happy” person, I’ve tried mantras, exercise, positive thinking, writing and, sadly, art – sadly, not because art sucks, but because I suck at art. Nothing works in the long run. Everything is just a filler until the next wave hits me. (As you can see, the positive thinking didn’t work out so well.)

Lately, it seems, all the old signs of my dysfunctional mentality have returned. From my constant forgetfulness – I’ve burnt through so many sticky notes and memo pads to collect my thoughts before I forgot them (even these, however, are capable of being lost) – to the thoughts that scare me.  And it occurs to me that it’s been a year since I contemplated the great nothing.

I’m considering therapy, but without a job that’s almost impossible. Unless I do my research and figure out how that grant works – I know there’s a grant because Miranda told me about it back in the day of her instability, though I’m sure they’ll try to shove a pill or ten down my throat. I just hope that the paranoia doesn’t arise because then my circle will get smaller. I’ll become a full fledge shut in. That’s something I’m not exactly ready for.

I’m going to rely on some old defense mechanisms, which include jigsaw puzzles (they help with keeping my mind focus, and in control of the situation)  and textures (they tend to calm my nerves). Hopefully the feeling of impending doom will pass. The sooner the better.

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