Depression

I woke up to learning that two people liked my comment under the Daily Show post:

‎@Valerie how do you protect the country or build roads or compete with China? Who wants to live in a country where a few are very well off and too many others are unable to live adequately?

I do look forward to seeing who likes my comments all the time. I feel heard. Voice is everything. I aim to be civil, kind, humorous, and sincere.

Still I am losing the war against depression, yet day by day, I do win battles. I speak. I support my daughter. I paid the three bills that have been haunting me. Still I live in bed, alone, dying slowly.

So today, I will take another stab at talking to Ellen through her email. It's a discipline to write within 1500 characters. Today's email is about Depression. Here's what I wrote:

I have hope. Not that you reach out to me—it's hard to explain why.

Depression’s not understood. My family will let me die slowly, cause it’s up to me to do what I should be able to do. If I don't act as they think I could, they’ll let me die alone, cause they think it’s about me helping myself & that I can. They don't get it. It breaks my heart. I think you get pain or through Portia you see somewhat. You can’t see if you don’t look, but you can look & not see. It’s not easy to see.

No one gets why people cut themselves, purge or drink to excess. It's not crazy. It's desperation to survive, sometimes to be heard. Every one knows if you stub your toe, your headache stops briefly. If you don't see the anguish of private times when someone is alone, you don't understand purging or Lindsey's behavior or doing nothing when so little could make a difference that day. I may not do what seems minimal & easy, but I’m here. I’m using my voice. Avoiding is a reprieve, a way to cope with too much pain. Children die cause they lack the experience to know they can get through it. It doesn't get better by surviving—just allows possibilities & moments like laughing, loving & being kind. Others bully or kill. I cry for all. 

I heard Portia. She’s unlikely to fix ever what’s broken—doesn't have to. She’s loved. She has you. That's plenty. Not every moment of my day hurts. I laugh. I have passion. I’m kind. But it’s not enough. I don't drink, or do drugs, I see everything & I still do nothing.

Being loved is different than knowing someone loves you. Maybe I ask for help because I'm desperate to be loved. I am in need of it. I don't know how to make it alone without it. There's connection in being heard, which is why I thrive on each acknowledgment of what I write. Maybe for me it is just about having moments. I can survive. But it is not like being loved.

I am fucking cold today. I am not looking forward to tonight. It's 47 degrees in here. I wonder what will be cold enough to act ... to fix the thermostat (at least know that it will work when I need it) ... to start a fire.