Depression makes you feel fat. Or way to thin. Your breasts are too large, too small, or too long. You are dumb. Your mom is dumb.
Then the suicidal thoughts creep in.
But what comes before the suicidal thoughts is the scariest. It’s the feeling that you are utterly and completely alone. No one understands you and no one ever will be able to. You are the only one with the urge to strangle your child. No one else has ever hated themselves. No one has ever been where you are now.
The last one might be the most dangerous. When I was in the hospital, I heard a woman grill the facilitator telling her she didn’t know what it meant to be depressed. The facilitator brushed her off, saying that it wasn’t about her own experiences. Then the ninety year old patient stomped out with her walker.
I want to be one of those facilitator. I think I’ve been a lot of the places they have been. I’m been on the verge of suicide, I’ve shown up at work totally drunk, I lost someone I loved more than anyone before. I’ve heard voices, saw things out of the corner of my eye that were not there, I’ve eaten an entire bag of potato chips.
There are many things I haven’t done. Meth. Time. Multiple marriages. But I don’t think that disqualifies me from empathy or compassion.
I’ve hear two people say that they don’t feel comfortable talking to counselors, as they are only listening to them talk for money.
It’s not a lot of money. If I get the therapist’s job I want I will probably make about $20,000 less a year than my husband. It’s not just money.
No more tonight. Feeling super ADHD. Back later