Some days the depression tells me I’m worthless. There’s no point trying to make anything better. There’s no hope.
Some days I open my eyes in the morning, and the countdown until bedtime begins, each hour in between is something to get through, to survive.
Some days my head feels like it’s made of cotton and each thought has to swim through all the muck to reach its completion. Some days it’s hard to think at all. Perhaps it’s better not to.
These days I get really mad at myself. I tell myself to will myself better. I tell myself to look at the positive, to look for opportunity, to just do something.
But all that often does is leave me floundering, railing against myself as I fail to live up to my own standards.
Standards: the one thing that can keep me motivated or knock me down. A blessing and a curse. A fight against my own internal demons.
Depression isn’t an easy thing to deal with. It tries to change who we are, and it lies to us about who we are, and it takes our greatest strengths and it manipulates and twists them into something malignant and dark and bitter.
And just like anxiety, depression’s greatest strength is that it convinces us to do things to keep it alive like the most wily parasite around. It tells us to lie in bed, to eat, to not eat, to sleep, to not sleep. It tells us that it is real. It tells us that it will win.
But depression is a liar if it is anything, and so the one thread of truth that I cling to is that it is not real. It will go away. I will find a better way.
I cling to hope because depression cannot stand in its midst.
There will be a tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better.
Sunnier days always come.