Since the 3rd grade, I’ve struggled with depression. I found myself hating everything. No matter what was going on in my life, depression was an old friend that wouldn’t leave.
Even if I had a large friend group with many close friends. Or no friends at all. Even if I had a loving partner. Even if my parents gave me a lot of support. Even if I ate proper healthy meals. Or simply didn’t eat. Depression sat with me.
Depression became a constant in my life. Something dependable. Maybe my social life was out of control, but depression was there to remain steady. I found myself being consumed by my depression. I was a shell of a person. I was angry, tired, and bored. I had no passions. I gave up on painting. I stopped drawing. Writing became a chore. Everything was grey. Just boring static. Sure, exciting things were happening in my life. Sure, my friends wanted to see me. But my music and my mental illness would swarm my room, surrounding me.
I found a strange comfort in depression. I liked the consistency it gave me. I could rely on it. People aren’t consistent, but depression was. I liked the numbness it cloaked me with. I didn’t feel happy, but I didn’t feel extreme sadness. Happiness was overwhelming. Being numb was comforting.
This past year, my mental health took an all time low. While I’ve always been depressed, it was like my depression had grown. A little vine had become an all-consuming plant. It was overpowering.
I finally told a close friend of mine that I was struggling. I don’t think I would’ve gotten any help if it wasn’t for him. I am forever grateful for him. I told him how I felt. He made me realize how extreme the situation was. How I wasn’t supposed to feel that way. How depression shouldn’t be embraced.
I told my mom about it. I saw a doctor and got on an antidepressant. It was weird. Color was brighter. Animals were cuter. My love for those around me grew. I enjoyed my passions again. I felt good. Like how I should be feeling. I could spend time alone without my brain attacking me. I was simply just a better person.
But something was strange. Everything was different. I felt like a fish out of water. I had been depressed for so long, that being not depressed felt uncomfortable. I was finding myself wanting to be depressed. Very stupid, but I found a strange comfort in my mental illness. It was safe. I knew how to be depressed. I didn’t know how to be okay. I lived many years depressed. Now everything was different. I fell into a cycle.
Being completely fine, then finding something to make me spiral back into depression—letting my sadness fester and consume me. I knew it was unhealthy, but it was comfortable. It was my normal for so long. I would watch sad movies, read sad books, listen to depressing music, anything to give me my feeling of depression back.
I didn’t realize how much I had spiraled down until my friend told me they were concerned for me. It was like a click in my brain—something was actually wrong.
I wanted to be better, but at the same time I didn’t. I wanted to struggle. I wanted to remain in the ‘normal.’ I fought with my brain a lot, trying not to fall back into my old habits. I would like to say I’ve been better. I have truly gotten better. But sometimes the world feels blank without the static of my depression.
Finding comfort in your mental illness is a strange addiction. One that is very difficult to kick. Though I’ve kicked it after years of trying, there are still temptations that haunt me. The urge to go back to the comfortable.
