By Kimberly Zapata
I am depressed. Again. And if I’m being honest, I have been for quite some time.
That said, it is easy for me to write these words. It feels comfortable, natural. Like I am having a conversation with myself. But to say these words — to look another human being in the eye and admit that I am not OK — is hard.
Scratch that. It is nearly impossible. I clam up. I lock up. A lump forms in my throat.
Of course, I am not worried about being judged. The people I would confide in support me. They know about my struggles and my many mental illnesses. But unconsciously, I judge me. I feel stupid and pathetic.
In my head, I hear echoes of failure: “You are hopeless. You are helpless. You are weak. No one cares.”
Plus, I don’t know what to say. I am sad, but there is no reason. I feel empty and numb, but I cannot tell you what that means or why.
Of course, I know these thoughts are reflections of my illness. They are the voices of my sickness and nothing more, but when you are deep in the throes of a depressive episode, reasoning and logic go out the window.
Depression does strange things to your body and your mind. It makes you believe you are not good enough or smart enough. It makes you believe you are not strong enough, and the negativity consumes you. You feel trapped and alone.
And in those moments, those dark, desperate and desolate moments, all the promises I’ve made — to my therapists, to my physiatrists, to my husband and even to my friends — fall to the wayside.
I close the windows, turn off the lights and shut my bedroom door.
Greater Than: Illness 