I thought long and hard about writing this newsletter. For one, it would be a public confession. An “outing” of sorts. Putting my depression into writing and sharing it with the world would send a signal to me and everyone else that I am not right. That I’m sullied by mental health “issues.” This, but maybe more to the point: You’re a sad person, Liv, and no one wants to hear about depression. It’s heavy stuff. Depression is depressing. Best keep that to yourself.
So I did. For years. I got good at masking it in work situations and with my college peers. Don’t stop doing became my mantra, because if you look like you’re making progress they won’t suspect anything.
The people closest to me knew. It was impossible to go along like nothing was wrong. They saw me drinking (blacking out) and smoking cigarettes. Stealing from CVS. Being strung along by self-proclaimed non-boyfriend types. Lying to keep up appearances. Saying “I’m fine”—a lot. Downing Xanax and sleeping all day. Isolating. Morphing. Fading away.
Years went by.
Eventually, I cut out all of the self-destructive behaviors: alcohol, nicotine, theft, prescription abuse, and toxic sexual relationships.
They were my partners in crime, my allies on dark days. Mostly, they filled my mind with distracting impulses and kept me unaware of my unspeakable depression.
Things are different now. Mainly, time just passed. I’ve lived longer, seen more. Accomplished some things, moved away, and became more comfortable with myself.
But the depression never left.
A few weeks ago I made a doctor’s appointment. I went in scared, lost, and resolved to the idea that anti-depressants would make it all go away. My doctor nodded and said the right things. She validated my points.
I have my dream job but I can’t shake these feelings.
Sleep is my favorite activity.
My body moves like maple syrup.
I feel myself slipping away from the people who love me.
I mentioned Zoloft because I’d been on it twice before. It felt familiar and safe. The doctor wrote the prescription, encouraged me to reach out if I needed her.
After that conversation, my heart lurched. 💔 I couldn’t place the feeling, and I didn’t know at the time that my body was responding to something outside of my consciousness.
The times before, Zoloft leveled me out by neutralizing all outward and inward expressions of emotion. I was a Tin Man: hollow and empty with the echoes of social support. “You’re doing the right thing, Liv,” friends said. “Some of us just need medication, especially us,” family reassured.
Maybe Zoloft worked for me back then, I’m really not sure. Maybe I went in thinking it would “cure” me and the expectation dwarfed my grasp on reality. Who knows. Quite possibly my attention was diverted by my current friend circle and the start of a new relationship. I started to dip my toes back into the public pool of happiness.
But I knew the 3rd time I couldn’t do it. So I didn’t go to the pharmacy to pick up my Zoloft prescription. The side effects alone drove me away: more tiredness, sweaty armpits panic, stomach knots, zero sex drive, and weight loss.
No thanks, not this time, I said.
I did the next best thing. I started seeing a therapist.
I’m not here to paint a picture that “everything’s better now! I figured it all out!” This isn’t a late-night infomercial or a Tinder success story.
This is Girl Play, where we share the way things really are without sugarcoating the truth. As I write this, I feel a sense of relief wash over me. I breathe in and feel the heaviness well up inside me, then slowly seep out onto the keyboard.
Writing these words for you brings me peace.
Talking with a therapist gives me perspective. It also lets me know how much work I have to do. How years and years of conditioning placed me in a box with a set of roles: sister, daughter, girlfriend, grandchild, writer, meal preparer, people pleaser.
I talk about the past and I criticize myself for the mistakes that wound up hurting me now. I examine my shortcomings, inspect the scars and bruises left behind from poor choices, self-denial, and familial criticism.
Then I think about the effect I have on other people. How people say my pessimism and negativity rub off on them and how it’s too much for them to deal with. It breaks my heart to think my depression could hurt someone I care about.
So I retreat. I find solace in my books, sometimes in food. I tell myself I’m better off alone, because who could put up with me anyway?
I wrote this newsletter for myself, but I realize it leaves an impact on you too. If you’ve ever felt like you didn’t have a place because of your mental health, know that you can email me confidentially. I am here for you, to listen, validate, and hold your heart.
While I have you here, do you know someone who could benefit from Girl Play? If you do, please share this newsletter and pass on the message: Girl Play is for women like us. Sensitive, messy, poorly understood, loud-mouth, sassy souls. ⭐
Be wise and stay strong,
Liv xo
Olivia, this is such a thoughtful and honest meditation on what it means to live with depression everyday. You are so talented and an amazing person! I’m lucky to have you as a friend. Bisous! 🥰