My blog may be pretty personal – but there’s a lot of things I’ve never blogged about here. Some, I never intend to, others – like anxiety – I’m going to try write about but I’m not sure when – or if I will publish these posts.
[Note: It’s a whole three years later and why the fuck not post this]
I’m writing this post on a sunny but windy Tuesday. It’s 30 December 2014. I’m healthy, I have a paying job that I’m pretty good at, a comfortable studio apartment [2017: two jobs and one apartment later…]. I have no debts, no immediate threats to my health or safety. I’m smart, I’m young, I have an excellent support system of friends and family.
And yet I am overwhelmed by crippling anxiety at least once a day. I’m writing this post in one of those moments when my anxiety is reaching it’s suffocating level where I’m almost unable to think logically and make rational decisions – even something as simple as whether or not to Whatsapp one of The Besties. I feel like I may cry at any moment – and really, I have no reason to want to cry today [edit later: I totally cried and then wrote a long, long post on depression]. Today is not a bad day, today is generally a day where nothing much at all has happened.
Note: This piece was written on 30 December, 2014. But I feel like maybe it’s time to let it out into the wild. I don’t handle stuff quite the same anymore (less sitting under my desk, more sitting on the kitchen floor, but samesame).
I think the first piece I ever read that really explained how depression affects me was this one by Hyperbole and a Half. I’m writing this post because I just started another one about anxiety and ended up sitting under my desk and crying for an hour. I can’t explain why, but small, enclosed spaces make me feel safe when I’m overwhelmed by sadness. Well, that and sitting on the floor. Maybe it’s because it makes me feel more melodramatic and helpless. Maybe because it’s easier to hide. Maybe because it’s easier to curl into myself. Maybe it’s because I can be really grounded.
Anyway. This is (some of) the story of my depression and maybe someone out there will read it and relate and feel less alone and instead of crying on the floor will leave a comment or message me (Twitter handle and gmail addie are in my about page – message me. I’ll listen.).
I really wanted to like this book. I really did. Damaged teens? Dark secrets? Sexy flirtations that blossom into love? Like, this is me at 16 in a book dying to be read and loved and adored and given five stars and glowing reviews. But I just didn’t. It didn’t work for me. In fact, it kinda annoyed me.