In Bed

                I don’t want to get out of bed.

                It’s a common enough problem. When you are young you don’t want to go to school, and when you are old you don’t want to go to work. Not wanting to leave a warm bed first thing in the morning is part of the human experience. On the other hand, not wanting to leave your bed for anything after a full night’s sleep is the opposite of living. It’s a Pause. It’s the act of doing nothing.

                I want to do nothing.

                It sounds so terrible on the page like that. I wish I could fix the words and convince people it’s not that bad. My life has been like this for a long time and I’m accustomed to these feelings; after all it’s been almost a decade since they started. The funny thing is I’m not sure what to call “it” anymore. I used to think these feelings were dramatic flares – an unfortunate case of teenage hormones. The difficulty in that case is how extreme they could be and how deeply they affected me. After all of these years I’m still haunted by the word that people have often labeled the feelings as…depression.

                Ugh. What an ugly word. Thinking or speaking the word makes me feel awful, like I’m choking on something that was unwanted in the first place. Instead of choking on a piece of food I consumed willingly, the word depression is like gagging on a tongue depressor my doctor insists on shoving down too far.

The word depression is never spoken in a normal tone. When a person says the word they either whisper it ever so slightly, as if it will be too loud and harsh for the listening ear, or they avoid it altogether. People are more willing to curse in front of their child than dare suggest the word depression has any connection with the other person needing comfort. The reality is that about 8% of adult Americans are affected by this dirty word and approximately 80% of people with major depression are not currently receiving treatment (PBS), which makes me wonder, how many other people are out there trying to deny how they actually feel? How many people are out there like me?

                It’s a curious enough question, especially if you consider the irony. It’s no secret that people feeling depressed frequently tell themselves they are alone, despite the common sense (and statistical evidence) that they are definitely not. As humans partaking in self-reflection, however, we cannot think in these logical terms. When you are depressed, sad, anxious, overwhelmed by your stress, etc.; you are more likely to isolate yourself in a corner and focus on your problems rather than seek help from others who struggle as well. It’s a common problem for people like me. I think normal people call it stubborn.

                Oh and we are stubborn. People with a mental disorder are often the brightest and most tenacious individuals I’ve come across in my life (and to think, I’m just passing the two decade mark on my biological calendar). We learn to adapt to our issues in an attempt to have control over them. We can become sneaky and expertly avoidant in order to hide our deeper turmoil from the people surrounding us. I would even make the argument that the first false conversation we perfect as humans sounds like the backbone of someone depressed:

                                “How are you?”

                                “I’m fine.”

                See what just happened there? An innocent and brief dialogue that serves as our most common defense from admitting something might be wrong. We don’t want to know what is wrong. I don’t really want to know what is wrong. Sometimes I’ll convince myself that it’s for the best and I’ll seek help, but deep down I think I could keep trying to say “I’m fine” because I hope that childish logic will prove to magically make me feel better. It’s all a game and I’ve unfortunately become rather skilled at it.

                Whenever I try to reflect upon my mental state, I always have to ask when things started. It stresses me to not have a particular day that I can derive my troubles from. The bad memories started after the sadness, not before.

                There are fragments of memories; sharp details surrounded by a fog of emotion. When they ask me how I think things started up, there are no words to describe such blurry memories. As if I were stuck in a thick fog, I am lost and isolated in my emotions. I feel disoriented because fog has no beginning and seemingly no end…I wonder if this makes any sense. It’s difficult to describe how emotions affect your thought process.

                I can remember sitting in my bed with my cd player and hoping that anything from Otis Redding to Nine Inch Nails could stop my repetitive and anxious thinking if it was played loud enough.

                I can remember tearing my math homework in to tiny pieces until it was too small to rip with my fingers. Then I would begin the assignment all over again or give up completely because I felt it would never be understandable. These memories haunt me with their honesty. They reveal the truth I hate - that this anxiety has been with me for a long time.

                I have an hour until work and I’m still in bed.

                Dammit.