DISCLAIMER: This article is not in any way trying to imply that people with depression are inherently mean, toxic, nasty, or bad in any way. Depression looks different on everyone, and this is what it looks like on ME. In addition, this article is not seeking to say that making lists and going to the gym will by any means “cure” depression. This is what has helped me and I’m only sharing it here in hopes that it may help someone else who is struggling.
When my doctor asked me if I had any concerns about depression, I said no. It wasn’t a lie – I wasn’t concerned about it. Yes, there were moments when my sadness was so intense that it felt like my chest was going to crack open and spill out. Yes, there were moments that I wanted to just drop everything and run away. Yes, there were moments that it felt like the whole entire world was against me and that the only place I was safe was under the covers in my bed. I’d always told myself that these were growing pains, and so I never sought a diagnosis. I thought that things would be better when I left for college; all I had to do was hold on.
And so, I held on. I got to college, hung up my tapestry, set out my succulents, and hit the ground running. I was so excited to finally be able to spread my wings and be free. I considered myself happy because my chest didn’t hurt anymore. I didn’t recognize, or maybe I just ignored, that my depression had changed forms, from deep sadness to boredom and a deep dissatisfaction with myself.
My days felt repetitive. To make things more interesting, I would lash out at people who didn’t deserve it. I don’t even know if I realized why I was doing it. I would type nasty texts, things I would never say face-to-face, and send them to the people I loved more than anything. I would start fights, and then act like the victim. I would give people the silent treatment, I would screenshot people’s photos and send them to my friends with mean comments, I would call my little sister names for no reason. I would act out because I was bored with my own life and wanted to feel something.
At some point, I had to step back and realize that I was the toxic one. I was the one making myself miserable, and for me to hurt other people and then point my finger and blame them was unacceptable and I hated myself for it. Even now, I feel like I’m avoiding taking responsibility for my actions by suggesting that it was depression making me act this way.
This isn’t a sob story, so please don’t feel bad for me; I was an unlikeable character. I was the antagonist in my own story. I’m trying very hard to rewrite myself with small therapeutic activities and mindset changes. If I type out a text that I wouldn’t want to receive, I delete it as fast as I can. If I find myself even thinking something nasty, I have to tell myself, “No, no, no. We’re not doing that anymore.” I keep lists of things that make me happy, from my iced latte in the morning to a good grade on a test. I’ve been trying to take out my anger at the gym instead of on my parents, my sister, or my friends. My days feel less repetitive and it’s easier to sleep at night and it sounds so easy, but I promise it’s not. Some days are easier than others. It’s hard work, and I’m still struggling, but I’m finally getting to a place where I can like the person that I am again.