It’s been a year since my first post. My public writing in the past several months has since tapered off. I’ve used this blog as my outpost for speaking out about my depression and anxiety, as a way to update people in my life about how I’m fairing, and also as a cathartic means of letting go. This time, I’m focusing on the [super long, I apologize] update, because I feel like I need to do a little self-reflection. Because speaking about the issue of mental illness as a whole isn’t as valuable for me without the personal experience. Because as much as it’s gotten easier to talk about these things, it’s also been much harder. With healing comes the belief that I shouldn’t be depressed or anxious anymore; the more I understand the past and my resulting behavior, the more I feel the pain of the people my depression hurt. The pain of the people that I hurt. Because while I intellectually understand it, I still can’t separate it. I still feel like it’s all my fault. Isn’t it?

Are You Going to the Party on Saturday?

One of the biggest hindrances in my life has been my social anxiety. I was invited to something, and the ensuing thoughts were debilitating. Was I really wanted? Did the person who invited me really want me there or was it a pity invite? When I am there, would I get judged for how I acted? The words I spoke? Should I not speak at all? I’m too scared to talk. God, they’re going to judge me for not saying anything. I’m going to look like a bitch. I shouldn’t go. I don’t want to miss out, though. But if I do go, it’s going to be a disaster.

I was absolutely smothered by my social insecurities. And then my social insecurities would afflict those around me. Getting invited to things by my ex would result in panic attacks, hiding myself, and arguments. Even outside of that, if I would go to a social event, I would panic when I was there. Did you see me at a party in college? I probably left fifteen minutes into it without saying goodbye, because I freaked out and fled. Maybe I took a walk. Maybe I found a dark corner to sit and cry. High school or childhood? Hah, I wasn’t even allowed to experience most versions of hanging out. The handful of birthday parties I did attend were anxiety ridden, and my social time was really just going to a tennis tournament or managing a school club meeting.

I think my biggest improvement has been dealing with my social anxiety. Pushing myself to go to things I’ve been invited to. Basically inviting myself to things (where I might not even know anyone). (“How did you get involved with this, Joanne?” ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ) Putting myself in every social situation that would have previously caused me to freeze or run away; those for me have always been unorganized occasions: times where I don’t know what to expect from the situations, where I don’t have a specific task to do, or where something that will bother me is bound to occur. I go to things without a fight, I stay, I don’t run away, I don’t hide.

It’s not all the time. My social anxiety isn’t gone. It’s still there, dormant, presenting its ugly head every once in a while and overtakes me. I freeze. I panic. I run away. And each time it does come up, it’s hard. It’s so hard. But it’s not every time anymore. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I have a choice.

Reach Out to Me Any Time

One of the most important parts of my life, if not the most important part of my life is my support network. Therapy and taking medication has been extremely helpful, but part of the treatment is trusting the anchor that’s made up of the friends I love. It’s reaching out when I’m stuck in my head, and I can’t get myself out. Having the outside perspective, hearing the voices of people who show me that they care – that I might even matter in this world, gives me a better chance of surviving.

But the reaching out, the trust – it got easier, but now it feels like it’s getting harder. I don’t want to bother the same people with the same problems that I’ve had. There’s usually nothing new, really, that comes up to awaken my panic and melancholy, so it doesn’t feel like there’s much more for me to say. And then I feel like I’m bothering the people I care about, and then it’s harder to let them be there for me, because I feel like a burden. Because I feel like if anyone has to deal with me – really, truly, deal with me, then they’ll leave. Because why would you want to deal with this disaster?

Yes, that’s a Good Idea! Distract Yourself!

There’s fake it till you make it, and then there’s what I do. My go-to coping mechanism if I’m not completely stuck in the hole of despondency. Distractions. Keep busy, keep doing things, fill up my schedule until I don’t have time to think. Keep going and going and going even if my continuous hand raising to volunteer for whatever it is gets me stressed. Event to go to? Project that’s due tomorrow? Competition tonight? I can handle it. Maybe it’ll make me panic, maybe I’ll have a random crying attack. It’s still better than the alternative.

The alternative: being stuck in my head. Having time to think. Delving into the existential crisis that I’ve had since I was a child.

Yes, I’m aware that my constant distractions are actually in a way self-sabotaging because I’ll eventually hit a wall and will crumble back into the misery of my mind. But at least for a time, I won’t be there. I won’t be lost. Because I don’t think I know yet what to do when I hit zero.

If I’m thrown back into the despair that I was often in – if the panic attack subsides and is replaced with complete and utter hopelessness, you would figure that by now, I would be at a place where I could tell you what you could tell me. What you could do to help me keep my head above water. To not feel like I have no place in the world. But honestly? I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.

Maybe because of my history with this disease and the people who have helped me through some of the worst of it, you could tell me that I’m strong. That I’ve fought, I’ve fought hard, and I will keep fighting. I. WILL. KEEP. FIGHTING. That it doesn’t stop, it never stops, and it’s every day. Every goddamned day. Maybe that’s my psyche. Push me like you’re my coach. Push me to believe that fighting is all that matters. But I don’t know. If I’m in that state, maybe those words will freak me out even more. Remind me that waking up is always hard, that dealing with myself, my losses, my now infrequent anxiety, my tiresome depression, is ALWAYS going to be hard. And that I don’t want to do that anymore.

But…That was Before!

I don’t know if my depression has gotten better. Maybe so. I guess I spend less time stuck and frozen in bed and in the dark than I used to. I guess being unable to go to sleep or wake up happens less often than it used to. But it’s still there. And when it’s there, it feels like it’s never left. It feels like the end of the world. Or at least that it should be the end of the world.

And that’s what therapy’s for. To figure it out. How to keep fighting. How to keep reaching out to my support network, my loved ones. To figure out how to live without my depression being this incredibly massive limitation. But it doesn’t happen overnight. It doesn’t happen in a month. It doesn’t happen in a year. It didn’t happen with my first therapist, and it sure as hell didn’t happen with the second. And if I think too much about it, then I feel like a lost cause.

So How Are You Doing?

I have a life. I’m busy. I make it work. Having a dog really helps keep me from staying in bed all day. Having that responsibility is really accommodating. My distractions are pretty awesome. I like my job, I have a pretty sweet roof over my head, and I have a pretty good balance of friends, volunteerism, competition, critical thinking projects, and active hobbies.

But there are still mornings where I have trouble getting up. There are still moments where my legs buckle, my hands won’t stop shaking, I feel like throwing up, and I start crying for no reason. Still moments where I feel worthless, where all I can think of myself as is a burden. And blame myself and shame myself for how I couldn’t control it and ended up hurting the people I loved. The depression and anxiety are by no means gone. Maybe they never will be.

But it’s better. I’m better. The difference is that now, I feel like I have more of a choice. Like there’s more of an opportunity to fight back against the demons that make up my disorder. I didn’t feel like I had any choice before. And maybe I didn’t. But I have ways to cope now, which means I have the opportunity to choose, which means I have a chance. And in those moments, I can see myself, hold onto that last inch of integrity, and fight back.

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If you or someone you know might suffer from feelings of despair, please find help 24/7 at the Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255). Find more information about resources and treatment at www.mentalhealth.gov.