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Depression is not being able to get out of bed all day. It is slivers and craters of skin missing cos’ the blade made its way into your hand again. It is not wanting to make love to your boyfriend cos’ you don’t have the energy to do anything more than lie there. It is screaming in the shower while waterfalls flow from your eyes. It is not knowing why you are so damn sad. Not knowing why you are so empty. It is crying at anything you see. Depression is when your mother asks you why you started crying when you dropped the pen your were writing with and your response is, “Cos’ I can’t do anything right.” It is chain smoking and listening to music that makes you cringe. It is not sleeping. It is shaking uncontrollably. When your only answers are “I don’t know” and “I don’t care” and “I don’t remember”. It is selective memory and screaming when the suppressed memories make their way through. Depression is standing infront of your brother’s gravestone and asking him why he put that bullet through his head. It is seeing your father crumble and ache when things remind him of his son. It is pacing and hair pulling and collapsing to the ground. Depression is the weight of everything crushing you and there is no escaping it. Depression is wanting to die and not caring how it will effect anyone around you. It is eating pills like candy and drinking whiskey like water. Depression is praying to God that you don’t wake up in the morning and punching a hole in the wall when you do. It is not telling anyone how numb you are. It is hating yourself so much that you try to dig your nails into your flesh to try to rip it off. Depression is losing all of your friends and only caring when no one is looking. It is throwing all of your money away on drugs and alcohol to try and forget how fucking empty you feel for a night and remembering all the pain when you wake up the next morning. It is writing until your hands bleed. It is not wearing your seatbelt and reckless driving in hopes of a fatal accident. Depression is not showering and not putting on makeup or changing your clothes cos’, what’s the point? Depression is telling your lover that “It’s nothing, it’s just my anxiety.” And telling him your going to grab a cup of coffee and write, when really you come and sit outside alone and write about how fucking vacant your soul is and tell anyone who will listen about how you just need to be held. It is not telling him that every time you leave his house you go and purge until your throat bleeds. It is lying to everyone who loves you and telling them you’re fine and that you’re just tired. Depression is terrible, it is not beautiful and it will not end unless you do something to destroy it. That, is depression.
And I am depressed.
And I need to be held.
I need to be loved.
I am strongly contemplating suicide. I'll just stay home tomorrow and do it. I've tied up the noose and everything already.
Anon. I’m going to share something personal with you today. And with all of tumblr, too.
Do you see this photo?
This is one of the few photos I have left of my mother and I. And the only one that’s digital, too.
I was about four years old in that photo. Shortly after that photo was taken, I was placed into foster care because of my mother’s mental conditions and her inability to care for me. Which was fine, it was the right thing to do.
She was taken overseas to a very good mental health clinic in Paris, which is where we came from.
My mother had a lot of problems. Among them were her multiple personality disorder and her bipolar. She stayed in hospital for most of my life, and battled depression and her suicidal tendencies. She went through a lot, including electro-shock therapy. Nothing seemed to help. She was a very lost and very hurt woman.
And one day, on Mother’s Day of 2008, my foster parents received a phone call at about 1am from the mental hospital my mother was staying in.
My mother had hung herself in the shower of her bathroom. Her mental illnesses, her lack of access to me and the things she’d suffered through her life had snapped her. And she was gone.
I was thirteen years old. Nobody told me until the sun had risen. I left my room, ready for school. And then I was sat down, and I was told.
And I was numb.
I felt nothing, for months. Months, and months, and months.
I was a very good student at school. I got distinctions, and straight A’s. And all of that kind of just… stopped.
The full extent of my loss didn’t hit me until years later, when I was sixteen.
And it hasn’t stopped hurting since.
I miss my mother every day. I barely got to know her, but I knew she loved me. And I ache every time I see someone walk by with their parents, or a little girl with her mother. It’s even cost me several relationships. It hurts. I can’t take it. Can’t do it.
You know the kind of woman my mother was? Kind. Smart. Thoughtful. She was a painter, and a lover of music. We lived in Australia when I was growing up, but she always loved France. In fact, it was her name. I recall my foster mother’s comment when she met her for the first time when she came back to Australia to visit me. She said how talking to my mother was like talking to your best friend. One you hadn’t seen in years. The joy in her voice, her smile.
I can’t even remember what she sounds like anymore.
Suicide? I’ve wanted to do it. Several times. It’s been tempting. Pressure builds inside your chest, and you can’t cry anymore. You feel nothing and it’s clearly just logical to end it because there’s no point living in a void anymore.
You feel like there’s no one else out there for you. You’re alone, and nobody understands.
Anon, let me tell you.
I understand. I’ve seen both sides of this coin. Nobody wins.
I know what it’s like to want to not exist. I spend half my days pretending to be mechanical because being human and alive is just too much of a burden sometimes. But I also know what it feels like to be left behind.
After the loss of my mother, I lost three more people to suicide. One was my uncle, and two others were good friends. One of them was one of my best friend.
I don’t know who you are, Anon. But I’d like to.
I’d like to know who you are so I can stop you from feeling this way. You’re not alone. And if you are? I’ll be the first to open my arms to you.
Death is not an answer, nor by any means a door to something greater.
Death is for those who have finished in this life. We are not meant to go before our time, and especially not alone.
I’m nineteen now. If my mother were still alive, she’d be thirty-eight.
It’s too young.
You’re too young.
To you, anon, and to everyone else out there who’s ever felt this way.
Stop. Breathe. Think.
Come to me, if you have to.
Go to someone. Anyone. Please.
You’re so much more than a statistic.
You’re worth so much more than tears.
You mean so much more than every person who has ever stamped you into the ground. Called you names. Failed to accept you because you don’t fit into their criteria of human. Spurned you, or ignored you.
I know this pain. And I know what happens when that pain consumes you.
Please. Don’t go.
I don’t know you. But your life means something.
I promise it means something.
I am legitimately crying…
Please, Anon. LISTEN TO THIS.
LOOK AT THIS! okay?
understand that there are people out here or off the net willing to help you , okay?
you motherfucking matter! do NOT forget that! Ever.