By: Isabella Urbani, Staff Writer
Dear friends,
It’s been one of those weeks. Writing feels harder than it should be. I’m either sleeping too little or too much. The load of laundry I said I was going to fold when I “felt” better has been rotting away in the corner of my room, and because that detail is out of place, I have an excuse to let the rest of my room go up in flames. I’m a person of extremes.
When I was in middle school, I had a horrible compulsion with placing my backpack in a particular way against the wall leading to the garage. But what made the backup perfectly placed was arbitrary — it changed every time. I would be glued to the spot, sometimes for 20 minutes, until it felt right.
I refused to dress up in high school because I convinced myself that’s what people who get good grades do. They simply can’t look the part, and be the part. Even now, part of me doesn’t see anything wrong with that.
I didn’t start taking medication until I was 18. That summer, I began to dissociate and experience depersonalization. I told my doctor it felt like I was living in The Sims, and I was a character being controlled by someone else.
I had no concept of time. I would think something happened two weeks ago when it actually happened that same day. I would move something, not realizing I did so, and then freak out when I found it in a different place mere seconds later. I didn’t think life was real. I didn’t believe my brother was my brother.
Before that, I used to be known for being dependable, doing it all, and doing it well. Now, it feels like my body is allergic to routine.
I don’t like the feeling that comes with accomplishing tasks because my brain forbids me from taking in the moment, and instead, focuses on the next big task.
I can’t watch the news anymore because it scares me, and I don’t like that I live on a big ball in the middle of space. I constantly remind myself: “Humans have been living on Earth for centuries taking up time, space, and creating waste.” Even though the notion that life will probably continue long after I’m gone calms me down enough to quell my panic, I soon remember that AI is taking over the planet, there are wars across the globe, and the amount of information on the Internet makes me deeply uncomfortable.
If I begin a task, I can’t stop until it’s finished. But didn’t I just interrupt myself and start an entirely new conversation? Yes. That’s what my mind is like — a wasteland of half-acknowledged thoughts. And being the heart-on-my-sleeve type, you can see it in my face when my thoughts are running a mile per second. I can’t remember the last time I had a conversation with someone where I didn’t have to stop and ask them what I was saying, or had to apologize because I started staring off into my surroundings.
I’m obsessed with appearing to be the picture of intelligence. I ramble, and as Michael Scott says, hope I find the sentence along the way. One summer, my entire Notes app and tabs were full of words I wanted to include in my vocabulary. Every time I had a typing error, I thought I had somehow forgotten how to spell.
I make the most mundane tasks, like putting cans in the garbage, a challenge for me to excel at. Sometimes the energy I force myself to put into these tasks makes me avoid them altogether. But once I actually do them, the only thing I can think of is why I didn’t do them sooner — just like I did when I put off writing this piece.
I once told my parents I can’t describe what I do because I don’t agree with my actions either. I told my doctor it’s like my brain and mind are disconnected. My brain doesn’t act on my behalf. I don’t know who that is. It tells me what to do, and sometimes I do it, like getting off the bus at a random stop.
Maybe if I didn’t overthink, I wouldn’t fear things I never did before. I would be able to turn on the shower for more than a few minutes because no, my brain is wrong, I’m not going to cause the world to run out of water.
Why do you need to know this information?
When my depression started getting really bad, nothing gave me more comfort than knowing that other people are suffering as well, despite how twisted that sounds. It still surprises me when people tell me that they take medication as well. Because, well, I thought that was just a me thing. I wished I could see the world as other people did. I wish I could be so unaffected by things I couldn’t control as my brother does, and those a whole group of people who know how that feels. To feel seen. Because that exact thing is what gets me through the day. Baby steps.
I’ve thought about scrapping this article many times. I used to restart projects, no matter how far into them I was, if there was a crease or a smudge that irked me.
When people ask me how I’m doing, I genuinely don’t know. I don’t know myself very well, because I feel like a visitor in my own body. I miss being young. I have an infatuation with pictures of myself growing up because I can’t remember what it felt like. I grew up fast.
I keep birthday cards my parents wrote for me as a little girl on my table. I have a tattoo on my bicep that reads, “If I’m not for me, she’ll be,” to acknowledge that no matter how much I feel like nothing, I’m still that little girl.
I have a rock on my side table that reads “one day or day one” to motivate myself to stop putting off tasks and just start the journey. I’m petrified of my age. I never liked my birthdays. I feel like time is running out for me while subsequently thinking I have too much time left.
I love music and car rides. I hate airplanes, although I’m not afraid of heights. I never used to cry as a kid because I was the only girl in a family of five brothers, but now, I cry far too often for my liking. I don’t like silence. I listen to music while I read, write, and even go to sleep. I’m terrified of having children, especially a little girl. I don’t like driving because I’m too focused on what other drivers are doing. I can’t cross the street even if it’s clear until I look both ways enough times. And it feels damn good to write that all out.
I notice the trees. I’m grateful for waking up to a new start. I rejoice that the things that brought me stress a year ago, I no longer fixate about. I do everything in my conscious power to bring myself happiness because that’s when I feel the best, and I’m sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. If depression is going to make my life feel like hell, then I’m dragging it all the way with me. I may lose the battle, but I will refuse to lose the fight.
