One of those days or why depression is real.

I seem to be having one of those days.

You know those days where you barely move an inch out of bed, but go on to call that inch a victory. That inch goes on to grow into a justification that your day wasn't merely you being sloth incarnate.

It's one of those days where pulling ugg boots onto my feet feels like a task. I'm warm in my hoodie and cardigan but my body does not deem the energy expenditure to remove them worthwhile.

It's one of those days where I have many pressing commitments - uni assignments, domestic chores, social engagements. Yet the weight of their importance deepens the imprint of my deriere firmly into my mattress.

It's one of those days where reading 50 pages of a 250 page book is seen as significant as curing cancer. Another one of my hollow victories.

I get scared when I feel this way. As someone who suffered from (undiagnosed) depression for what in retrospect, was the better part of six years, these notions of apathy and displeasure that are currently leaking from my brain are an all too familiar reminder of what was once a daily experience.

I would rise at 12pm. Well, I would tell myself, twelve hours of sleep must just be normal for some people. Never mind that actually pulling the covers off myself would usually take another hour or two.

Once out of bed, I'd shuffle around the house in my pyjamas, foraging for some form of sustenance. Usually toast. Anything else required too much effort, and the strain of even thinking about the energy required sometimes brought me to tears. It's okay, that was normal too, I just really liked toast.

Oh, I should get dressed? Why? Don't I look good in my food stained trackpants and dressing gown?

Toast in hand, I'd crawl into the corner of the couch, lamenting about another lost day of university. I just wasn't passionate about what I was studying. And besides I had already missed the past three classes, how could I face the humiliation of returning? Returning to a room where all eyes would be fixed on me, vulnerable, scared me, those damn confident bastards judging me, for being such a failure at institutional education. No, the shame of it was too much. Maybe I'll read, I'd think. But my enthusiasm for that pastime had sated. And I hated myself for the contrast between then, and now.

Reading had once been my armory. It suited me up with the finest chainmail, gave me a weapon in words and threw me head first into any perceived battles. The hunger I had for books, for words, was insatiable - I had taken to curating a mini library in the toilet.

Now I couldn't bring myself to pick up a book. Their enchantment has ceased and all that I held in my hands was a symbol of what I would never be. Other people took words as their ward, carefully crafting them into luminous tales. But not me. I was a bad and horrible person for even contemplating writing, my desire was an affront to all those who had come before.

So I didn't read.

I sat in the corner of that couch, barbed words spewed forth, bouncing between the kindly cushions I was nestled between.

I was dumb. I was stupid. I was useless. I was incompetent. I was boring. I was intolerable. I was messy.

I was the worst person who had ever walked the earth.

No wonder I didn't have any friends. (Looking back, I actually did. I had a lot of friends. My mind was just too messed up to acknowledge that people would actually be interested in who I am. I looked at a lot of those people with suspicion - as if to say 'What do you want from me? What could you possibly want from me?" I want to apologise for that. And say thank you to those who persevered with me. I love you all more than I can possibly explain.)

And so I would continue to plunge myself into the icy waters of self loathing.
I didn't want to kill myself. Only depressed people want to do that.

I'd go and do stuff that was supposed to be fun. Cinema, parties, library (fun for me, okay?!), theatre, sports. And every time I'd come back feeling hollow. I just tried to tell myself I didn't enjoy EVERY ACTIVITY KNOWN TO MAN.

It's a vicious, self perpetuating cycle.  You wake up and you hate yourself. Then you hate yourself more because you hate yourself. You try to do things you used to enjoy and you feel nothing. So you hate yourself. You see everyone else being relaxed and happy and think it mustn't be that hard. So you hate yourself. You hold yourself to standards you can never achieve. So when you fail, you hate yourself. When you do finally crack and tell someone how you're feeling and cry on their shoulder for two hours because you feel helpless and hopeless, you feel like a burden and try to brush it off and then you hate yourself.

That is why days like today scare me. I don't know why I got better. I can't pinpoint the exact factors that led to my recovery. Maybe I was just lucky.

And yet some aren't so fortunate. Depression is real. And it's shitty. And it's scary.

This post was meant to be a light hearted look at procrastinating on a uni assignment, and it evolved into this. Maybe it's just a story that has to be told.

If you're currently in acute distress please call Lifeline on 13 11 14
If you want more information on depression please check out the Beyond Blue website.