looking back, you shouldn’t have fought it
I’m afraid. Everyone says the way back from depression is two steps forward, one steps back, but I seem to be in the middle of a step back and I hate it. I guess I thought I’d be the exception. When I began this semester, I was so full of determination and so aware of the desperate fear of not being at Rice that I couldn’t imagine falling back into these patterns. I knew it would happen, but the feeling of numbness that foreshadows this sort of massive fuckup was nowhere in my mind. I did know. I knew that I would be back here. I expected it, and when I woke up late one morning with my head full of fog I knew exactly what was going on. It made no difference. I wrecked my car tires this morning and had to run to class and felt the familiar panic of my life slipping away from me, of falling millions and millions of steps back. It was overwhelming. I would almost rather feel that fear all the time than have it surprise me like that. I thought I would cry in the middle of class. My heart was beating so fast I was seeing spots. Poor, poor me, the sad girl, who can’t do anything right. It isn’t as if other people don’t get nervous. But I, for some reason, can’t handle it. I tell myself it’s because my depression is worse than other people’s sadness, that anxiety takes over my brain, but maybe I’m just being a little bitch and I’ve never had to handle responsibility before. I asked my mother to wake me up this morning and she didn’t and I woke up late and now I feel like I may cry because god, I hate asking for help, because even when I’m screaming for it people don’t seem to hear me. I don’t know how much louder I can be before I’m carted off somewhere. The ridiculous thing is that I’ll be screaming about how much it hurts and suddenly someone will look up like, goodness, did you just say you want to die? Why? As if I haven’t been screaming for six years. Just ask for help, they say, but from whom? Who can I ask that can actually help me? I’m pretending that therapy is helpful because if I don’t I will dissolve into nothingness but it doesn’t help. The medicine does nothing. Therapy does nothing. Nothing matters except this endless cycle of good days and bad days and bad bad bad bad bad bad bad days.
I’m really not crazy, you know.