I have no title.

This isn’t meant to be one of those woe-is-me posts. It’s simple. I am depressed. I have Major Depressive Disorder. I have Dysthmic Disorder. I also am realizing that WordPress has changed their format slightly and it’s bothering me to all hell.

Yes, I feel alone. But I know I am not. However, when I try searching for sites, blogs, forums, anything about people who have had enough of depression, it’s usually because of relationship problems, problems with school, problems with fitting into society. I get that. All of those things are incredibly hard to deal with when you are depressed.

Can you find the real smile?

But where are the posts about people who have been dealing with depression since they were in grade school? I can almost pinpoint the year it all began through my school photographs.

I put this collage together years ago, so pardon the outdated font and color choices. It’s funny, though, how I can remember something from every photograph. The necklace from kindergarten, the red bow from first grade. The elastic ponytail from second, and every shirt from there on up. The glasses, and the necklaces, and the headband, and the earrings. If I could fit into them, I’d probably wear some (if not all) of those sweaters today.

I’d say by at least second grade, something started to go wrong. I can see it in my eyes. Definitely by the eighth grade, I have bags under my eyes and years of anxiety and depression have already begun to make themselves at home. I was miserable.

So here I am. It’s 2016. Those photos were 20-28 years ago. How many more years can I go on living in complete misery. Because despite times of perceived happiness and motivation, there was always something underneath it all that was digging at my insides. This unhappiness that has ultimately paralyzed me my whole life has now left me wondering if I even have a future. I could never see my future when I was younger, maybe I could have planned for it, but I could never see myself having a future. Now, I really cannot imagine myself doing much more than I am at this very moment. Day-to-day living, struggling with depression, doctors, trying to keep the household going, worrying about finances, the list goes on. I see so many people going to work, having a job, making money, having some kind of routine in their life even if their work schedule may not be consistent. I have two things consistent in my life: a weekly (if I’m lucky) therapy session, and a monthly medication appointment. Otherwise, it’s a struggle each day trying to decide whether or not that particular mood that I may be feeling will be the lasting mood, and how can I make the most (or least) of it?

It’s a shame that so many others go through this same feeling, and it’s even sadder that some of them may not have the fortunate support of loved ones to get them by during the hard times. When the psychiatric hospitals are filled, you’re rejected by Social Security, you can’t afford health insurance, you have little to no income, savings, or housing, you end up on the streets. I know how fortunate I am. I am extremely appreciative of everything I have, and I never forget what the people around me do for me, but since the illness is so much stronger than I am, I can’t help but feel like a burden.

I should stop here before this blog really does turn into a woe-is-me story. I just want there to be other options than the ones I keep to myself. It’s not that I’m putting more focus on them rather than trying to get better, it’s that I am exhausting my resources of trying to get better.

All I want to be able to have, and keep, is a damn job.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s