As hard as it is to put my swirling thoughts into some sort of coherent rant it's even harder to type this. To stare at the words in the text box and not back out, to not simply press the little 'x' at the top of the page and bury it because other people have real
problems and I hate to sound like I'm whining. But here it is, a clustered but long thought out description about me, and my black cloud.
I would begin with 'it all started when' but it doesn't really have a beginning. I just recognized that gradually my feelings shrived up and faded away. Sitting at my sculpting desk where previously there had been an outpouring of creativity and talent was now replaced with disinterest and boredom. Just sitting, rolling lines of clay over and over before putting it away and telling myself I'll feel like art tomorrow. Tomorrow yielded no better results, nor the days and weeks that followed. Nothing amused me any longer, sculpting didn't make me happy nor did any other activity I once enjoyed. Sure I could do these things, but inside I felt hollow and bored. My art stagnated and died. I wasn't concerned at first, I thought maybe my lack of excitement was merely me growing up, but even adults have things they like, activity's they enjoy and are passionate about. I noticed I stopped caring. In a way it was good, any insults pitched at me rolled off my new found shield of disinterest.
Eventually the novelty wore off and it began to be a bad thing. My lack of feelings made it hard for me to distinguish what conversation topics were appropriate or not. I forgot that unlike me people around me still had feelings of some kind and certain topics may have best been left avoided. I started to find that communication was irritating and exhausting, opting to just be alone or to avoid conversation when possible. Other things began being affected as well, like my concern for personal well being.
Growing up I had a deep anxiety about illness and dying. It would sometimes keep me inside for being too afraid to leave the house. It followed me well into adulthood in that I never really grew out of it. But then I started taking risks and doing other things that I never would have before. My turning point came when I took some medication for some really bad cramps I was experiencing, along with a throbbing headache and had a bad reaction. Truth be told, I honestly thought I was on my way out. As I made my way to my bed to try and sleep it off I found that I wasn't terrified, as I would have been before. The idea popped up and suggested I could be dying. I laid down, and was glad. When I woke back up I had a slight pang of sadness that I had in fact woken up.
I guess that's when I really started thinking something was terribly wrong.
A long time ago I used to think being depressed was being perpetually sad. The reality is that depression isn't the presence of something, it's the lack of anything. The lack of excitement, the lack of hope. Drowning while everyone around takes deep breaths and asks why you don't just take a breath and relax. But when you try your lungs fill with saltwater and you try to tell them but they tell you you're overreacting and to suck it up. It's not living, it's merely surviving
because death would inconvenience someone and that's the last thing I would want. And it's not that I want to die,
I just can't bear the thought of continuing to live this way. I want so badly to sit and sculpt, to enjoy the things I once loved. In their place is a void, a dark cloud that follows me wherever I go.
I know now that depression isn't just being sad, to have depression is to suffer. We suffer every day because life beats us over and over, and a lot of the time we're too afraid to leave it.