Here, I wrote out how I feel during a depression spiral so I could give it to my therapist. I’m safe, don’t worry.
Unless someone self-harms, it’s impossible to understand why anyone would do something so illogical and stupid. But lying on my bed, a pile of work waiting for me, I just want to burn myself.
As my skin reddens, it hurts, but the pain feels physical and real. I’m in pain because I’m burning myself. Things have a beautiful and logical cause and effect.
Instead, the pain is internal. Internally, like a boil that won’t drain, the feelings fester inside me. I hear the pain, told me by the ghosts of my past.
“You’re a monster. You always knew it. You always knew if you lost control, you’d become just like me,” whispers the voice of the person who hurt me the most. “I ruined you, I made you broken and you will never be whole.’
“No one takes you seriously. You’re a pushover. People can take your time and know you won’t say anything. Your feelings don’t matter. You put people first, they’ll never put you first, because you aren’t worth it,” reminds the voice of my childhood self, the bullied kid who hid under beds. “They’ll always abuse your goodwill. It’s your own fault for opening up.”
“You’re oversensitive. You’re a burden. No wonder you’re alone.” That would be my ex’s voice tormenting me. “You’re so weak. Do you really think anyone cares about you? They see you for what you are, broken and stupid. They’re laughing at you. You’re just too dumb to see it.”
“You’re just another student. You could leave tomorrow and in a week, you’d be forgotten,” says another voice, someone I deeply want to impress. I fear that’s what they are thinking, even though they’d never say it. “You’re so pathetic, but your attempts to be relevant are nice, at least.”
The pus seeps inside me, and I want to drain it out so I can breathe again. I need to get to work. It’s due tomorrow.
I tell myself to take a shower, but keep the temperature reasonable. I know I can’t. The second I’m inside, I’m going to crank the heat up and make the pain real.
My thoughts get darker because I can’t escape this spiral. I don’t want to reach out because I don’t want to be more of a bother, more weakness. I feel crazy for all these feelings welling upside me. I just wonder how it would be like to just sleep forever and stop feeling this pain. Maybe I should burn myself. Just this one more time.
Maybe I should eat some sugar. It is harming myself, gives me sensory seizures, but it would feel so good. And no one can call me crazy for eating a cobbler, right?
I don’t want to go to Krav class today. But that means admitting weakness. I am running away from my feelings.
I don’t want to go to Krav ever again. That’s really admitting weakness.I never want to feel this bad again.
I need to get to work. It’s due tomorrow. I can skip Krav and finish work.
I tell myself that I’m not going to get into the shower. I know this spiral isn’t real, it’s an illusion of fear. If I wait it out, I’ll find my way out the other side. It’s a storm that I just need to pass.
What if it doesn’t pass this time? In the movie, The Perfect Storm, the crew thinks they will make it through the hurricane when they see sunshine. But then they realize, it’s the eye of the storm and worse is yet to come. “She’s not going to let us out.” And then a giant wave destroys them.
Depression spiraling feels like that gigantic wave. The pain feels so big that it’s pointless to fight. I can no more fight the pain than I can fight a tsunami. It’s not that I’ve reached the end of my rope, but there is no rope. There’s only pain all around me.
Is this spiral going to let me out? Logically, I know the answer has always been yes, but maybe this is it. This is the time where my luck runs out and depression swallows me alive.
Maybe I want oblivion. I’ve fought so hard, and I’ve done so well. Maybe it’s enough and I can finally rest. No more pain, no more having to be brave and strong and alone.
I’m spiraling, so I should burn myself. Just a bit. It will make me feel better. Hurting myself is better than doing something worse. It’s the logical choice, but I know it’s the wrong choice.
I should reach out for help, but then I feel like a victim. I’m depressed over the most stupid thing, I’m sure I’ll sound crazy if I call someone. I am crazy, and I don’t deserve their help.
I need to get to work. It’s due tomorrow. My reputation relies on it.
So, now what?
That’s how it feels.