Perhaps the worst part of my depression was the guilt that ate away at my insides. I knew that the feelings I had and the way I was living my life were not right and as each day passed by I would feebly attempt to gather strength to turn it around. It was the disappointment in myself that tied me down further, my inability to complete daily tasks that were only necessary for survival like buying food from the shops, made me regularly question my place as a human being. Each day I would write lists to complete, with number one always being to get out of bed. Even this was a battle with the evils that governed my thought processes as I argued with myself over the pro’s and cons of dragging my body outside of unwashed sheets.There was no purpose, no reason, to leave the room that I hid in. I was studying a degree yet this was only another social activity, another embarrassment, another guilt, and another opportunity to feel deeply inadequate.
My confidence had been vacant for so long I didn’t know the meaning of the word and when assigned with presentations to the class, a fear trembled through my skeleton. It was truly a living nightmare to stand in front of a group of people, address them on a subject I could muster no interest in and present using a mind that was consumed by worry, fear, memory-loss, lack of focus and the idea that everyone was against me. The only times I could communicate with people was when I went out drinking. I would throw back drink after drink so that finally my mind was poisoned and tricked into believing that I was happy, overly confident, and outrageous until I awoke trying to piece together fragments of the night. I drank until I could not stand, could not speak my own name, and could not remember the turmoil of my life that I was persistently escaping from. I favoured hangovers because it was an excuse to lay in bed all day but I would still lay amongst guilt for doing this to myself and for letting myself wallow in pity.
Creativity would only escape after I drank some alcohol and I could always feel the urge inside of my blood trying to be released. It was supressed with my emotions as if I had stopped myself from feeling anything other than pain. I was ashamed of who I was and didn’t know who I was so when I drank I allowed my suffering to spill out onto blank pages in slurred words and buried them between hoarded coursework and memories so no one would see what I really was. I was un-hinged, broken, divided, drowning and alone. I was suffering with depression, anxiety and social phobia, and I thought that was the way I was. I thought these illnesses and all of the extra side effects were my personality, but they were not. They are not a part of me and I have learned who I really am and accepted who I am so I can live my life with a free mind.