Rational Thoughts of an Irrational Mind

At the age of 18, I realized I had this thing called depression. I tried to make my mother see there was something wrong, but she dismissed it. I even left my journal out one day and opened to the most devastating of stories I had written. Being the loving mother she was, she never read it. She closed it and brought it to me, "Baby, you left your journal open in the living room. You should be more careful." She loves me, very much, as does my father. I am sure they hoped their baby girl would have grown up to be more stable. They don't know everything and they never will. I want them to be proud of me, not embarrassed by the things I have done and the predicaments I have knowingly placed myself in.

I was getting my Masters in Psychology when I sat down with my Major Professor and asked him to "non-officially" diagnose me. It was depression. I spoke to my physician who started me on a barrage of medications, hoping something would help.

I remember exactly what set me off and caused me to seek treatment from an actual Psychologist. In 2007, I had joined SL. Late 2007 I had finally landed in a relationship with a man I had crushed on since I first began. We partnered, we married in SL ... we met in RL.  I was ... very deeply in love.  I ignored my RL when I was with him, because in my mind, he was all I craved and wanted. For 6 months it was nearly perfect, he even proposed. I knew he was who I wanted to be with forever.

Then it all came apart. He ended things with me during the week. That weekend was my moment of weakness. *Bear with me, this is hard to tell a group of people who do not know me intimately* That Friday, I woke up, knowing I shouldn't be alone. The entire weekend, I carried around a bottle full of muscle relaxers. And, yes, I mean I carried it around everywhere I went. Every night I took a bath and those pills were with me. Every night I contemplated taking the entire bottle and falling asleep for good in the tub. If the overdose didn't get me, the water would. I reached out to my best friend at some point that weekend. She begged me not to do anything and I said I wouldn't. But that pill bottle slept with me. My 'brother" at the time, the one who said he would always be there when I needed, never answered his phone, never called me back. I was totally alone. 

I got through the weekend without doing it, but only because I knew it would kill my parents to have to bury me. There was no one else in the world I cared about but them. Everyone else would move on, live their lives, and forget about me. I hated myself, and they were all better off without me.

He "took me back" after the weekend because he couldn't stand not being with me. 6 months later, it ended for good, although it was over the day he asked me back. I can only guess as to how many girls he cheated on me with.

I sought treatment when I realized I was going to kill myself. I needed something more than pills. I needed an official diagnosis. I need validation that I was ... sick? He confirmed it, made it official, and my physician and I continued the drug rotation. This one makes me sick ... this one doesn't do anything ... this one gives me hives ...

I've been in talk therapy for 3 years. It helps some, although I still hear disappointment in his words, I still fear doing things wrong, I still fear his judgement. But, I haven't been suicidal since.  I have teased the line of self-harm. I have scratched my skin enough to cause sores. I have dragged a box cutter down my leg. I have drawn welts on my skin with various metallic objects.  I have replaced these all with a marker. When I want to cut or hurt myself, I write on my skin. Although the relief isn't the same, it brings me a peace I can't explain.

My closest friends know exactly when my switch has been activated. Most can spot my depression when I lose my ability and my love to write. But those who are close to me sense it in a way no one can ... and for that I'm grateful.

I think I'll always have depression. I don't know that I will ever be "normal" and I'm not sure I want to be. In a way, I feel like I was given this disorder as a way to cope with the world and it's emotions. If you know me truly, you know why emotions are my devastation. (That's for another story).

So for now, I take my medications and I go to therapy and I share my story. I'm not embarrassed by my depression. It's not the only disorder I have, but it's the only one that many have in common. And maybe, if I can make anyone feel less anxious or stigmatized by sharing ... it's a positive thing.

~ Kis

I welcome any questions about my depression and what I have experienced with it. Feel free to message me if you wish. I'm very open about it.