Hyperbole and a Half

Allie is back and I love her.  Always have, always will.  And while depression is different for every person, she’s right to write about how it feels to her on the inside.  Even when my mileage varies, and my rage/depression/sadness is more wrought with sobbing anguish and less with leaden lethargy than hers, she’s right to claim her own space and say what doesn’t feel right to her about what’s been going on and what she thinks about all of the mess that is being depressed.  So while there were aspects of her story that don’t mirror mine, there were parts that reached out and grabbed me with YES.

“I somehow managed to convince myself that everything was still under my control right up until I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn’t feel obligated to keep existing.”

And then, talking about having to express feeling suicidal, and yet:

“I was also extremely ill-prepared for the position of comforting people. The things that seemed reassuring at the time weren’t necessarily comforting for others.”

Yes, because it does seem like so much bullshit when you’re in the middle of it, and you shouldn’t have to be in the position of telling other people you’ll be okay, because you DON’T FUCKING KNOW, and you’re asking other people for help, even if it’s inarticulate as all fuck, so fuck them, ahem, excuse me, I get angry about being asked to comfort the people I’m asking, you know, the ones who have agreed to be there to support me?  (What?  It’s not like I’m crazy or something.)

Except on the other side of it, your fishes weren’t dead, they were just resting until that piece of corn came along.  Even when it’s that fucking weird and random.  Because, yep, depression’s like that.

Thank you, Allie.  I hope that the not knowing if it’s going to be okay or not turns into a knowing it might and real certainty soon.  Because I’ve done the sobbing on the floor thing and now I know– most of the time, it’s mostly ok.  Even if it took me a long time to get there, and for me, it comes and goes, back and forth, because that’s the bipolar thing about being depressed, trying not to lose my shit about the additional layer of knowing it’ll come back around some other time/season/trigger.

Still.  Thank you for writing & saying your piece, and I hope your piece of corn moment repeats and repeats (if in less hysterical seizures) until the uncertainty of why you’re pushing on fades.


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