I don’t know how to write this. I don’t know how to write this for a couple reasons. First, it’s about my most recent therapy session and some of the things I talk about there involve work and some involve other people and those things aren’t mine to tell. But it doesn’t really matter because what I want to talk about doesn’t involve specifics but rather how I felt during the session.
We were discussing mindfulness, an incredibly useful tool that my therapist is regularly encouraging me to do, and which I am regularly ignoring. And while exploring why I am having so much trouble with mindfulness, something I’ve done successfully in the past, we discussed the fact that most days I don’t really like myself and that I don’t want to face that fact. I don’t want to look inward because I won’t like what I see.
And while discussing this, and the things and people in my life that might make me feel this way, I felt a whole rush of feelings. I felt confused. I felt frustrated. Most of all I felt angry. At what, I don’t know. Maybe my therapist, maybe myself, maybe just the fucked up reality of living with mental illness.
I assume all these things are depression’s defense mechanisms, the tools it uses to fight back when you actually try to give a fuck about yourself and get better. Or maybe these feelings are just who I am underneath all the mental issues and I’m scared of what that will look like. Maybe it is that I have tried so many things to try to get rid of my depression and anxiety that this just feels like another gimmick that will get my hopes up and then amount to nothing. Maybe it is all these things. Maybe none of them.
Maybe this is just me rambling and people are tired of fucking hearing about, which I assume is the case because I’m definitely fucking exhausted with living it and worrying about it and fighting it. Yet anxiety and depression thrive in the darkness, but hate the spotlight of having their story told. If I’m feeling this chances are someone else is feeling something similar. To those people know that you are not alone. That these feelings pass. And that you’re are stronger than your mental illnesses, even if you don’t know it yet.
P.S. My autocorrect stubbornly refuses to recognize the word fuck, which is really fucking annoying. If I ever start talking about ducks you’ll know it is because I no longer have enough ducks left to correct it.
P.P.S Ducks is at least more acceptable than dicks, which is the other thing autocorrect tries to change it to. Which is actually somewhat appropriate given that depression can be a real dick sometimes. Touché autocorrect.