With a slight change — I added starry starry night — this is a post from August 2010 about depression. In about a year, I would completely collapse, and be diagnosed with Bipolar 2. Six years later, and in many ways, I’m like I was when I wrote this post. And that scares me.
I have always had the sadness beneath: the way I describe my clinical, rather than situational, depression. It’s not that you don’t want to be happy, but something always pulls you down, so you can’t be happy. Sometimes it’s the never-ending loop of sadness that plays inside your head; sometimes it’s the Blu-ray dvd of past injustices or “mistakes/errors” that can’t be paused; sometimes it is situational: something happens in the world around you that makes you cry.
For me, it’s been the crying: the uncontrollable, inconsolable, body-wracking, never-ending sobbing, that has marked my face, my soul, my life. “Depression hurts” goes a current tv ad campaign; so does my crying. Physically, it makes my stomach muscles ache and gives me a migraine-like headache. Emotionally: the pain cuts deep; deep as a knife; deep as the chasm between light and dark, between happiness and sorrow.
“Always on the outside, looking in on other’s lives” (Indigo Girls)
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