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My Soul on Trial

September 19, 2016

Having a depressive episode is like your very existence is on trial. Your mind is the aggressive prosecutor and the defense attorney has fled the country.

You sit there, or lie there listening to the damning evidence, believing every word of it. You want to defend yourself, but you don’t know how. Every attempt is met with objections from the prosecution.

You imagine a large group of protestors storming your home, rushing in with emphatic calls for justice and convincing evidence that the prosecution is lying. You need to be defended. You need to know that the thoughts are lies.

They say you should ask for help. How do you do that?

I could call a friend and tell them I’m in a bad place and I need help. Maybe they would come over and I would cry and try to be funny. They would ask me to tell them how I feel and the words that would come out of my mouth would be so sad and pathetic, I would just want to hide under the world. They wouldn’t be able to talk me out of it. Would could they do?

Asking for help feels like emotional black mail. I can’t do it.

Even if I did have a gang of people show up at my door, one by one telling me good things about myself. I wouldn’t believe them. The sadness of hearing someone tell you how great you are and not believing them is devastating.

So, I wait and I watch tv to trick my mind into not thinking about what a waste of space I’ve been for the past 47 years. I sleep in and take long naps. I write. Sometimes I paint. I skip my walk or force myself out. I lie to my friends. I say I’m sick.

I hide and fantasize a rescue.

And I wonder how many of these I can survive. Are depressive episodes like heart beats? Do you only get so many in a lifetime?


From → Rantings

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