My Friend The Terrorist

The thing about depression is it starts quietly. Just a quiet whisper of, “You’re not good enough.” You can brush it aside, not disagreeing, just moving on. Another whisper of, “you fucked up.” Until eventually it’s shouting a steady stream of, “you’re not good enough,” “you messed up,” “they don’t like you,” “you’re not enough.”

And the thing is, if you hear something enough you’ll believe it. You not only believe it, you understand it. It makes sense to you that someone wouldn’t want you because of course they don’t. Why would they? What’s to want? You walk around carrying this weight of failing and everything else becomes harder; simple things like going out in public or not crying in the frozen food aisle of Target because you had to buy your dinner from a section labeled, “Meals For One.” Things like being able to interact with the rest of the population who doesn’t have an emotional terrorist living inside their brain. And the failure pile keeps growing, validating every negative thought your brain has ever thrown at you.

I was reading a story* recently that described depression perfectly.

His depression is like that friend he never agreed to and doesn’t want, a deadweight he’s carrying around everywhere, and isn’t ever allowed to put down.
– Sunsetmog’s Not Your Fault But Mine

And it’s so true. I’ve been dragging this godawful weight with me since I was 16. Which is 16 years of listening to my brain tell me all the ways in which I’m not good enough. And let me tell you, my brain is creative.

I can’t put it down. I don’t know how not to listen to it anymore. I don’t know how not to believe that voice instead of the people who care about me. Because that voice is telling me any nice thing you say is a lie. Look at all this evidence it has complied. *gestures vaguely at Fail Pile*

Sometimes the hardest thing isn’t the depression. It’s remembering the old me. The one who didn’t second guess everything. But I’m starting to wonder if the old me is real or I just made or her up so I had something to hold on to. So I had something like hope that I could aim for.

*Yes, this story is fan fiction. Yes, it is about boys. Yes, it is about boys who exist in the real world; who you may have even heard of. However, it is also the most accurate portrayal of someone dealing with depression that I’ve ever read. In or out of fic.

2 thoughts on “My Friend The Terrorist

  1. Not exactly related to this post but I found your blog via your YourTango article called “10 Heartbreaking Truths Single People Never Talk About”. I understand where you are coming from in finding it difficult to not listen to your emotional terrorist. Being so logical, mine always tells me I don’t matter and am insignificant. Because if I mattered and people loved me, clearly I wouldn’t go months on end without being embraced by anyone and I would have friends that were closer than a long drive or a flight. (Obviously #2 of your heartbreaking truths really hit home for me.)

    The one thing that helps a little is talking about my need for physical touch. I find the easiest way to edge into the conversation is to ask friends if they’ve read The Five Love Languages. Many of my friends have at least heard of the book and know one or two. From there I can ask what theirs is and mention that my strongest (by far) is physical touch, which for me manifests in the need to be hugged and embraced. It’s also enlightening to hear what others have as their strongest love language. One of my friends found hers is Acts of Service and she was surprised to learn that all the times in college when she was washing dishes for me as an act of love, I would have been more glad to receive a quick hug. Not entirely helpful when said friend is now a two hour drive distant and married but it might help you if many of your friends live closer. Also, I found most of my guy friends are a lot more comfortable giving quick hugs for greetings, farewells, and on request than my female friends. (That might not be true in all cases but I found it true in mine.)

    Good luck!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s