Liar of a Disease

I used to be able to separate what this disease makes me feel and what I actually feel but it is getting harder. Maybe the depression is just becoming a better liar. Maybe depression’s pants are so on fire, and I just can’t see it as easily.

It’s easy to believe what depression says, that I am whiny and self-absorbed, that if I wanted to, I could be better, that the depression is still around because I’m not working hard enough.

Depression is like one of those dick husbands in an old school Lifetime Movie and I guess I just need to get all Nancy McKeon on its ass. I swear I’m trying but it’s getting to me. A lot.

I’m fighting the illness and also the side effect of the illness, the one which makes you doubt any strength you have, the one which tells you, you’re not worth the fight.

I just have to keep remembering that voice’s pants are on fire.

Something Else Please

I am suffering right now. I don’t know that I have ever said that sentence, it sounds whiny, but it is how I feel. I feel in pain. The pain makes me angry. Angry at myself. It doesn’t make sense, but then it so does.

I know that I am working hard to get better, to manage this disease, logically I know that, but deep down I don’t believe it.

I blame myself for feeling this way and logically I get why that is untrue and harmful, but I do it. I am trying not to. A lot. But I am doing it. A lot.

I wish there was a way to handle the up and down of getting healthy without getting knocked around so much.

I want to enjoy feeling better without getting attached to it, in case it fades.

I want to not need others in the way I do.

I want to be for myself who I hope I would be for someone else.

I am struggling and I want to find a way to get through.

Take the “i” out of the disease, which makes dsease, which spell check doesn’t like

“And, oh, it was so baffling. You know when you have the flu and you can’t remember when you felt well? And then when you feel better, you can barely remember feeling sick? The authority of depression is horrifying.” – Dick Cavett on his battle with depression

I am ready to barely remember feeling sick.

I am ready to not feel like such shit all the time. I am ready to not feel worthless, worn out, and like I am just done. But I don’t get to decide the timeline. I just get to fight and hope something sticks. And it is rough right now.

I have patience and love for others but I think we all have a harder time giving that to ourselves.

And this disease, it just fucks with that part more. Remembering it is just a disease, and that I am not the disease and that it is a disease that will hopefully get better, that’s the hard part.

Being done seems like the only choice but it is not a choice and that’s that.

And soon I will take Ambien and conk out. Yay.

It is what it is

The past few weeks life has sucked balls. Actually life itself hasn’t. I’ve done awesome things with awesome people. Life hasn’t sucked balls, but having this disease has. I don’t remember crying a lot in my adult life but it is how I have ended nearly every night in the past few weeks. Crying and in a pain I have run out of words to explain. Depression is like no other illness and yet it is like every other illness; fighting hard doesn’t mean you’re cured but if you are lucky, extremely lucky, you have people who support you through it.

I have spent most of the last week surprised and many times saddened to wake up in the morning. I hate that this has been my mindset. That mindset is not a side effect of this disease. It is this disease and I am in the middle of it and will continue to do my best to remember this is a disease and somewhere in all of this, there is a me who has to stay.

I wish that wasn’t so fucking hard, but if all my wishes came true, life would be less plagued by disease for all those who struggle, and hugs and sheet cake would be available 24/7.

Unfortunately right now is fucking hard and that is just the way it is but fortunately I have a beautiful support system.

And a shit ton of drugs.

A Life Blessed with Charlie Sheens

Sometimes it’s not about hanging on like a motherfucker but about letting go like one. Not to let death/killing myself win, but to allow myself to be in the place of struggle and darkness, to not put judgment on where I am at. To not think I am fucked up, or needy, or less than for being in a dark place.

I have wanted so bad to be able to scream “I am healthy!,” to reassure people, to let them know I have won this disease. Final victory. In doing that I have given myself two options, get healthy or kill yourself, forgetting about the third option of being kind and patient with myself and being okay struggling in this disease. I wanted my life to read like an 80s teen movie where the victory happens exactly when you want it to, instead of it being like an improv scene where you don’t know what will happen and understanding that’s part of the deal

So now I am trying to remind myself that I am working hard, really hard to live: Therapy, writing, drawing, reaching out, and now adding to that, giving myself a fuckin’ break. Health will happens when it happens. And maybe one day I will have my Corey Haim Lucas-esque moment but it sure as fuck is not going to happen in 90 minutes and Charlie Sheen probably won’t be the one who helps me through.

But I was reminded this week that I have a life full of Charlie Sheens, between Facebook people reaching out and my therapist and a friend who really helped me sort through all this. Both of them were there to do what I needed most, to be willing to go to the uncomfortable dark places with me, with kindness and no judgment. Some people have no Charlie Sheens in there life, but me, I have many and I am grateful.