I recall the day as a Thursday, approximately mid-eighth grade. Long before that, a miniscule seed had sown itself into the soil of my thoughts, slowly manifesting itself into the now unbearably overgrown forest of Depression. That Thursday in eighth grade, I found myself wandering towards the heart of this metaphorical wilderness. I exited the school bus and entered my household. Lethargically, I walked up the carpeted steps to my room, a quiet sanctuary with shut blinds, laden with dirty clothes thrown askew. Gently my backpack was placed on the floor, followed by the rustling sheets caused by my body climbing into the bed. The last thought before I drifted off to a routine nap was how much I dreaded having to wake up eventually.
With an illness like Depression, it is a common misconception that it inflicts sadness upon the carrier. What it really feels like, is essentially, nothing at all. Not joy, not anger, not even sadness. Imagine that feeling when in a hospital, doctors pump sedatives through an IV drip to leave you unconscious. But before you drift off into that induced sleep, the brain feels terribly numb, as if it has been wrapped in thick cotton that prevents natural thinking or emotion. In other words, you lose the ability to feel. You are mechanical in a sense, you cannot cry and you cannot laugh. As if you are just vacant space carrying a body of flesh. Naturally, one would assume there is a bright side, which would be not experiencing human sadness. I can’t even begin to emphasize how wrong that is. From spending years and years devoid of emotion, I would have given anything to feel anything.
A pound on my door jerks me awake from the not-so-deep slumber. “Wake up,” my father says from behind it, “or you won’t be able to sleep tonight.” I often found it quite difficult to keep to a natural diurnal schedule nonetheless, as was typical amongst the age group. The ache in my bones intensified as I hurled myself unwillingly out of the blanketed embrace and journeyed onward downstairs again. I went to sit down in the kitchen, next to where my mother was cooking something I do not recall.
But this, right here, was unexpectedly the moment that changed me. I took note of how the world around me droned on, what with my family doing their usual occupations, friends oblivious to the forgotten, unused burial plot that I have become. Earth still orbited the Sun, and the Moon still orbited the Earth. Why? The answer is because nobody took it upon themselves to change anything. I found myself thinking, how could I possibly expect to be cured of this infliction of the soul by simply lazing here, haphazardly wishing for better days to come? It has been years after all, this same routine of mental absence and I have not done a single thing about it, for it has swallowed whole any motivation from my youth. Yet at last, I make the decision. It is me and only me that can help myself. The world is blind to the suffering of insignificant individuals. But I am fully visible, gazing at my anguish overlooked by others. I am the only one that can help myself. I am my savior when I need guidance, now of all desperate times.
“Mom,” I asked, my voice weak and raspy. “I...I think I need...help.” She spun around from the sink she was facing, a mixture of puzzlement and concern etched in her eyes. “What happened?” She always did seem to express worry far more than necessary, especially when she did not know what was going on. “Im saying that I’ve just been feeling worse and worse lately. This can’t possibly be normal. I want to see a doctor and get help.” Deep inside I was afraid. Afraid of how my mother would react, and the questions that may follow. “What, Why?” After inquiring this stressful request, the woman asks me why? She might as well have asked me how to balance a checkbook. I obviously wouldn’t have the slightest idea why I was how I was. We then fought a bit, arguing about “why.” Time passed at a snail’s pace until she at last gave in and agreed to make an appointment.
It was set for that following day, a Friday. The drive there was absolutely nerve-wracking, mainly because of how alien it felt to have hope, maybe, for a future that does not have to be controlled by Depression. But the strangest thought of all was the realization that I would not be getting the assistance if I hadn’t taken action myself. As said before, the rest of the world is already preoccupied, exemplifying how the only person in your life that can improve you is, essentially, yourself.
The place was relatively close to my home, thus shortening the duration of the tension. I stepped through the door and into the overheated, smelly waiting room, crawling with loose toddlers. Eventually a nurse peeked her head through a door, vocalizing my name and signaling to come forth. There was never a guarantee that I would necessarily be cured 100%. It has been years and years that I have suffered the burden of living with this mental illness, but it was the likelihood of at least improvement that moved me, thanks to waking up into reality and seeking the help I was depriving myself of for far too long...