Personal Insights: One young woman's account of living with depression

The latest submission in our occasional 'Personal Insights' series highlights a first hand and highly personal account of one young woman's battle with depression.

generic stock mental health anxious anxiety depression worried worry anxious woman depressed

In the latest submission to our occasional 'Personal Insights' series one young woman has submitted a highly personal and first-hand account of her ongoing battle with depression.

I STILL remember the first time I heard the word ‘depression’.

I was a master eavesdropper in my youth, the 007 of the household.

I’d say I spent half my childhood years with my ear pressed against closed doors, straining to listen to whatever conversation I wasn’t meant to hear.

One of my favourite past times was listening to my parents' hushed discussions when I was meant to be in bed. I’d creep back down the stairs, tiptoe along the cold tiles and sit outside the sitting room door waiting to be let in on whatever secrets were being discussed.

When they lowered their voices, that’s when you knew the good stuff was coming. They were talking about ‘adult things’, as adults often do, things children shouldn’t hear so of course I listened even more intently.

What can I say? I’ve always been too curious for my own good.

That night's topic of conversation was an illness called ‘depression’. Of course I was only eight years old, I hadn’t a clue what this big word meant but by God what I heard scared me.

I didn’t get to hear much after that, because the telltale creaks of footsteps crossing the floor was my cue to escape back into my bedroom.

I thought about it for weeks after that, I spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning, terrified of this mysterious illness. In my young, imaginative brain, depression was a monster coming to get me no matter what I did.

Of course, when I got older and understood what it was, I assured myself that it couldn’t happen to me, sure what have I got to be sad about?

I must have jinxed it.

There was no life changing occurrence, no tragic event that set off a grand downward spiral. It simply came to be.

Like a cloud, it started drifting over my head until my brain was enveloped in its shadow. 

It is a fairly new addition to the chemicals in my brain so I’m not quite sure how to balance it out yet. It’s taken a while to figure out the equilibrium between the gut wrenching sadness and the leaden numbness that comes with it. (It’s a whole lot of positive thinking and little white tablets before bed.) Crying has become a concerningly regular past time of mine. If there was a record for most tears shed in shortest amount of time I’d be World Champion.

A sad advertisement comes on the telly? Cry.

Someone says something nice to me? Cry.

I see a cute dog on the other side of the road? Sobbing.

If it’s exhausting for me, I can’t imagine how the people around me must feel.

Now I’ll be the first to admit that depression is hard to understand. I can barely articulate coherent thoughts on the subject and I’m living it! But dear Lord, in this day and age you’d think depression wouldn’t still be such a wildly misunderstood subject.

Alone with your thoughts

Mental illness has become something of a trending topic in recent years. Social media has seen to that. If I had a euro for every time I’ve read a completely superficial quote about mental health on Instagram or tumblr, I’d be driving a Ferrari and jetting off to Spain for the weekends.

Take a quick scroll through Tumblr and you’ll see how young people are relating to mental health issues. Idyllic pics of perfectly red lips with a blue pill pressed between them. Emaciated girls frolicking in a meadow, with their ribs jutting out disconcertingly from their body. Or, a personal favourite, sad quotes against a cute snap of rain or a model crying in the background — #Depressed.

Social media isn’t the only culprit. ‘Girl interrupted’, ‘The Virgin Suicides’, ‘To the Bone’ are just three examples of the hundreds of films about mental illness, all of them presented in the most glamourised way possible.

Our pouty main character isn’t sad, she’s ‘tragically beautiful’. She’s in pain but everything’s pretty and aesthetically pleasing so how bad can it really be?. Throw in a sexy boy toy to kiss away the pain and you have a best seller!

From stigmatised to sensationalised, I can’t help but wonder whether people realise that taking a Buzzfeed ‘am I depressed?’ test doesn’t make you part of the mentally unstable club. Access isn’t that easy I’m afraid.

Depression is a lot less mascara ridden tears and perfectly imperfect hair and a lot more body odour and matted knots - because taking a shower is just too hard.

Sometimes you can’t breathe, your heart is a rock inside your chest and the air can’t reach your lungs, you’re own body is suffocating you. But on the outside nothings changed, there’s a smile on your face and no one can hear you gasping for breath.

There’s days where there’s a faucet behind your eyes that won’t turn off. For hours and hours it runs until the water fills up your bed and soaks your sheets.

The pleasant numbness of being hollow is a comforting hand that takes away this awful exhaustion, the weight of living.

Despite what Hollywood thinks there’s no inspiration in laying in pyjamas for days, staring at the ceiling, trying to find a reason, any reason, to just Get. Up.

There’s nothing enchanting about losing interest in many facets of life.

I suppose that’s why real life isn’t shown in the movies. It doesn’t quite fit the aesthetic bill, does it?

But despite all the negatives, there have been a surprisingly large amount of unexpected positives. In a way I have never felt more loved.

My family have done everything in their power to help me in whatever way they can, whether it be meditation and mindfulness classes or the book of positive affirmations, the little things mean a lot.

And my friends, my lovely friends. I can’t tell you where I’d be without them. They spent nights on FaceTime when my thoughts became too loud to be alone with, they stayed beside me when my heart was bleeding through my chest and helped me put myself back together time and time again. Through it all they reminded me again and again, I’m not alone and I’m not a burden. I don’t think I will ever be able to tell them how grateful I am.

I have the black dog and he is with me at all times. But he’s not the ferocious beast he once was. We’ve been together for months now and we’ll be together for months more.

It’s been the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to deal with but I do know one thing. Even the worst black dogs can be taught how to heel.

* This personal insight has been anonymised.

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