A History of Disease

And to be honest, I still cringe a little when I write that word in connection with depression. Stigmas run deep, and even after years of speaking to elementary-age kids about how depression is a real sickness that is manageable and cureable just like cancer and pneumonia... I still don't like to own up to it, because of the connotations it has. "Looney," "crazy," "unstable..." All applicable words to me at times, and I certainly shouldn't be ashamed. We all have a bit of crazy in our personalities--mine just surfaces more often than others, and sometimes it likes to throw things at walls and dirty looks at loved ones, for no apparent reason.

The first time I really remember feeling sad, tired, and confused with no cause was in junior high. Seventh grade, to be exact. I've always been one to purge feelings through words, and some journal entries I wrote in English concerned my teachers. The teachers told the guidance counselor, who called (gulp) my parents. Luckily, they were already aware and on guard for the depression they guessed would show up. Both my dad and my dad's family have lived with this same disease, and I feel grateful that my parents were prepared.

Depression cycled in and out of my life through junior high and high school. There were times I was upset because of my meatloaf haircut and awkward way of inserting the topic of sharks into every conversation with boys at dances. There were other times when I did inexplicably reckless things that my mom couldn't just attribute to the hormones of puberty. There's puberty, and then there's the unforgiving, merciless wrath of mental illness. Be warned.

Here I am, age 21, and depression is flaring up like it never has. Remember the scene in Trainspotting when Renton is going through withdrawals? Pretend bugs crawl all over his skin, disembodied voices laugh at him, and the dead baby darts across the ceiling? Welcome to this week of my life.

I do research on my disease. I self-medicate. I work hard to keep spirits up. But it's frustrating, especially when I feel I am so blessed with my life. What right do I have to complain? It's just my brain, just a body part like my thumb or my pancreas. And it's maddening to have a short list of diseases, none of which completely fit into what I experience day in and day out. I want a personal, private name for my own thing, disease, whatever.

Symptoms of Me That May Stem From Disease (And Therefore Be Manageable With The Right Treatment)

Poor judgment

Recklessness with money

Feeling invincible when I'm clearly not

Little sleep or too much sleep needed (with no apparent pattern)

Problem concentrating

Extreme irritability

Racing thoughts

Pessimism

Loss of interest in fun things

Problem making decisions

Body pains that cannot be relieved

Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, and hopelessness

Symptoms I Experience That Have Other Possible Explanations

Stubbornness (Possible cause: uh, birth)

Feeling like I'm walking through sand (Possible cause: actually walking through sand--just checked, not walking through sand)

Denial that anything is wrong (I call this my game face, actually)

Unexpected weight gain (What, cookies are just really good!)

Aggressive, intimidating behavior (Have you met my mommy?)

Violent thoughts (Possible cause: Quentin Tarantino)

Empty mood (Possible cause: I'm hungry again)

CONCLUSION: I have a life to live, with or without this mushy brain thing I'm going through. As Boyfriend so lovingly pointed it out, this is how I was made. Why should I feel I have to change it, control it, or get rid of it? I get to find a way to function with it, and in all honesty, it has made some things in my life easier. I definitely feel I'm more creative because of it, and if anyone needs a snarky, bitchy remark, just come to me before noon and I'll fix you one right up. So, end of story, this is me, I'm not changing, and I'm putting one big, awkward, clomping foot in front of the other, even though I trip a lot.

HOLLA.