This week, I accepted a place to study creative writing at a masters level at a very good university. I should be elated and excited, and planning the coming academic year like mad. I should I should I should.
But I’m not. Because this week my depression flared up and knocked the wind out of me.
I woke up one day and my body was swollen. My limbs were heavy, my hips hurt, and walking up my road was like climbing a mountain. I stood in front of the mirror and cried in frustration, pulling at parts of my body and wiping up the snot that dribbled down my chin. It didn’t matter that I had succeeded because I was a failure. The university, and the world, just hadn’t realised it yet.
I hate depression. It’s dirty and smelly, and steals joy in all the forms it can get its hands on. It removes control from your life and changes your body until you don’t recognise it. It’s a thief, and I fucking despise it.
There’s no resolution in this post because I’m still tangled in the flare-up. There’s no sudden “and this is what I did to kick depression’s ass!”. Right now, it’s kicking mine, and it’s okay just to ride it out until you can kick up to the surface and take a deep breath.