51 days … and counting. That’s how long I have been depressed. I’m smiling sometimes. I’m functioning. I’m laughing at jokes. I am responding to social media. I’m still depressed.
51 days of seeing 3, 4, 5, 6, 7:00 am and sleeping until noon. Wasting away beautiful mornings that I will never, ever get back. Days where I just want to lay in bed with my eyes closed or wear an eye mask to keep from looking at light. Days where I only eat one time a day. Hungry, yet no desire to eat. Or when I do eat, I over indulge. The headaches … those sometimes unbearable head pains that even a Goody’s headache powder can’t touch. The irregular heartbeats every single day that scares me, but the doctors can’t find anything wrong. The high blood pressure that’s not controlled, but the doctors overlook every high reading at routine visits. They don’t care.
51 days of thoughts of being hopeless, less than, unworthy, unloved, unappreciated. 51 days of feeling useless, ugly, burdensome. 51 days I have thought about deactivating all social media accounts and turning off my phone. Still contemplating it. My phone doesn’t ring anyway.
But something happened on Day 37. I was overwhelmed. I was so riddled with so much sadness and grief. I said something I had never said out loud before. Something I held onto for over 40 years.
I’m tired of living.
Yes, I said it. Yes, I meant it. Yet, here I am. I made it to day 51. And I’m still counting.