Others' Stories of Depression
If you have a story to tell about dealing with depression, please COPY AND PASTE the address below and send it to us at:
HereToHelpIndianapolis@gmail.com
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ALL SUBMISSIONS WILL BE 100% ANONYMOUS
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I was always a good kid. I never did anything that “all the other kids” were doing. In high school, I avoided all drugs and drinking and focused on school (which was hard because of my learning disabilities). I also had to get 2 full time jobs as a teenager to help my mom, who always struggled get by and pay bills. I just never had time to be a real teenager and always had the world on my shoulders.
At the age of 19, one year into culinary school and still working two full time jobs, I was in an accident. I was t-boned by a semi on the passenger side of my Cutlass. I was lucky and not seriously hurt. However, I had always had chronic back pain from a sickness when I was a baby, and the crash made it much worse. The E.R. doctors never gave me anything for pain, but when I went to my regular doctor, he gave me all the pain meds in the world. I never took them, because I was afraid of them for some reason. Soon after, I started dating a guy who smoked weed with me for the first time. It was a great feeling, I felt hardly any pain but it was still there. A few weeks later he said maybe I should take a pain pill, drink one beer then smoke weed. Man, that was the best feeling, but soon after I was snorting the pills and drinking a case of beer a day, all the while, smoking all the weed I could get my hands on. It was my time to finally be able let go, even if it was just a few hours. It did not stop there though.
The real story starts a few years later, when I almost threw my whole life away. I broke up with the man I thought I was going to marry, I lost my dog to him, and I even sold my car to be able to afford a thoughtless trip around the country in a van with a friend. I thought I was so free. Finally, I thought I had nothing to worry about. So I went, and what I found was a man who broke me down lower than I thought possible. All of the abuse lead to me, more than once, to taking as many Xanax as I could find in the house and drinking half a bottle of whiskey, just hoping not to wake up from that night's sleep. After finally getting away from him, I came back home to my dad's and stayed with him. I told myself that I would just smoke weed and I even stopped drinking for a few months, just trying to clear my head. Not long after, I got back home, where I met new friends at work. In my industry, it's so easy to be around drugs. This is when I did coke for the first time. I had never felt better. I started out just doing a few lines in the bathroom, or the walk-in, or the back room, a day. Soon after, I found myself letting the man who sold it to me at work move in and be my boyfriend. That started a year of nonstop using, I was so fucked up all the time. Being a diabetic and not eating for days at a time is not great for you, but I didn’t care. After a while, I started telling him I wanted to stop. I was so worried I was going to accidentally cut myself at work, or worse, get drug tested and lose my life’s work because of it. He never stopped bringing it in the house. It was always there, and he was always doing it. In that time of my life, I can remember how unhappy I was all the time. I didn’t want to let anyone be more fucked up than me so I just did it. I couldn’t say no, and I just didn’t want to feel anything but happiness and the energy it brought. Then, I was showed proof that you can stop!!
My best friend's brother had been on all kinds of drugs and had messed up his life in many different ways. At his mom's birthday party, I (of course) showed up high and I saw him. It had been a few years and he looked amazing. I talked to him for hours that night and found out that he had been clean and sober over a year. I was so amazed at what he had become! About six months later I finally got the courage to ask him for his phone number so we could hang out. We hung out one February 15, 2016. After hours more of conversation, I saw that, not only can I get clean, but I could move on with my life and feel happy, like he was again. With his help, I am able to now say that my clean date is only one week after we hung out that first time! He took me to an NA meeting and helped throw out all of my drug stuff with me.
So, after a year and a half of being clean, I can honestly say that I love my life. I was able to learn to value my life, and be happy that I didn’t lose my life any of the times I had hoped it would all go away. In a year and half, I was able to find the best job I've ever had, my happiness, and my soulmate. So, it is possible to become happy if you try to find the help you need.
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--T
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Here is what I have to share:
I tried to kill myself at age 15.I started drinking at 16. I smoked weed at 16. I became a daily smoker at age 18. I started using acid that same year. Then shrooms. Then molly. Then DMT. Then cocaine. Then cigarettes. Then ketamine. Never thought I'd be snorting horse tranquilizer to numb the pain. I can't go a day without hiding myself from reality and anxiety with the help of drugs.
I frequent the local bridge. It represents death to me. The countless people that jumped off. I look down and wonder if I should join them in the water a couple hundred feet below. I see their souls wading in the current.
Here I am. 19. I can't stop. I'm too young for this shit.
No one thinks it will escalate.
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-NR
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My depression.
My depression is someone who has been there for years, maybe even longer than what I suspect.
She reared her head into my life in my late teens, early twenties.
I didn’t recognize her on my own. My mother and aunt did. And it was frightening.
It was frightening to be told that my actions were screaming for help.
I was 19. How was I supposed to know that underage drinking every night, skipping class and sleeping more than I ever had before daily were signs of depression.
I was 19. It was just a phase… I was still taking care of myself in a sense that I would eventually get up, take a shower, brush my hair and teeth, put make up on, look at myself in the mirror…
But she was there, that sneaky bitch.
I got help. I went into counseling. I talked about my feelings rather than bottle them up. I stopped drinking… As much. I went on Lexapro. I hung out with my friends who didn’t party as much as my other friends. I stopped sleeping around with random people as much. I thought I was fine. I felt fine.
The thing about my depression is that she’s very like my party goblin; they’re both very opportunistic and wait until just the right moment to grab on and push me a little further on that edge of sanity to insanity. She waits in the shadows of a night where I’ve had too much to drink, or I’m feeling exceptionally weak, or I’m rejected and heartbroken. She waits and then she pounces at just the right time to send me into a state of manic to which no one has seen before; I refer to this as my “crazy.” I have been fortunate enough to have close friends who have seen this “crazy” and not been frightened by it. Instead, they’ve embraced it as a part of me, which it very much so is. But it is this crazy that usually sends me over the edge, making me feel worthless as a human being and a total waste of space on this earth.
When I was 20 or 21, my depression showed me a true glimpse at suicidal ideology. This is where thoughts like, “Wonder what would happen if I drive into the opposite lane of traffic,” or “Well maybe I just take the whole bottle of pills and take a nap” start popping up more and more in my thoughts. Stress from a biology class and potentially failing the course a third time triggered her. She kept saying, “Do it, I dare you. You won’t.” And she was right. I fought like hell with her in the shower that morning, panicking at my thoughts, panicking at what I might do. And she sat there with me, just watching. Watching as I could barely breath, watching as I cried into my arms sitting in the shower as the water became cold. Crying because what else was I going to do? Kill myself? I knew these weren’t normal thoughts… I knew she was pushing me closer to that edge, more so than the first time. I called my mom, and told her with more clarity about my depression, that I needed her home and needed a counselor. My depression went back into her corner, and stayed there for a few years.
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Now, at 29, I am finally out of my third major bought with her. The stress I placed on myself in Tennessee finally wore me down, and she came back to remind me that I had two choices: take the easy way out and just end it, or fight. After two failed attempts at serious relationships, one being incredibly emotionally abusive and co-dependent, turning into a unhealthy relationship with food and how I viewed myself, to stopping all sorts of self care like showering or even brushing my teeth, I sought out my counselor who had helped me through a rough period in life when literally everything fell apart and where things really started to unravel. I had been demoted from a job that I thought was my dream, I had been ghosted by the person I thought was “the one,” and I decided to start isolating and alienating myself from my gym and CrossFit community in every way I could. You could say my depression launched a full-on attack of my life, hoping this time she would win the battle. For a while, I thought she might. I was even taking Lexapro again, but felt worse than I ever had. She had made sure to make me feel alone, insecure, and unwanted. I remember laying in the chair that Christmas, not wanting to move, not wanting to think or feel anything. I found solace in eating and mindless television. I contemplated seeing what kind of meds my mom was on, researching it to see if I took enough, it would be painless to just fade away into nothingness.
She was good at that time, keeping me under her thumb. Acting and reacting. She knew what to say, what to do, how to hide it. She reminded me daily how worthless I meant during that time. And then, I stopped taking the Lexapro. Not on purpose, it just sort of happened. I started to feel a little less down and out. My depression would try to remind me that I didn’t matter, but I would either text someone or talk to someone and it would remind me that I did. I started to open to my counselor; to my encouragement she told me that I sounded better and more willing to work on myself. My depression was no longer getting the best of me.
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I honestly think that this move to Florida is what has continued to save me from another encounter with my depression. She’s there, always. I can feel her in the negative speak that pops up in my head from time to time. But I’m relearning how to be gentle and kind with her and myself when that happens. I am learning how to talk and work with her, through the bad and ugly. I’m rejoicing in all the good that has come of continuing to fight her. But I know she will always be there, waiting for another opportunity. Because she is a part of me as much as I am of her. I can accept this part of me now for what she is; the driving force behind my strength and courage to get out of bed every single day and embrace everything that happens in my life.
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--R
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I am in my early 30's and I have been battling with depression for more than a decade now. It was mostly because of the bad choices I made, I think, that caused me so many problems. I think I have actually been depressed longer than I've realized, but I was too young at the beginning to actually recognize it. I remember back in middle school people would ask me, “Why do you look so sad?” I never really had an answer for them, so I’d just say something like, “I don’t know. I was up late last night, so I’m probably just tired.” That would satisfy people most of the time.
As I got older, I was always thinking that I felt different than everyone else, and wondered why I had to fake feeling normal. Eventually, in my early 20’s I figured out how I could feel like I thought everyone else felt. My answer was dope. I had been smoking weed regularly since I was about 15, but it didn’t do for me what this stuff did. I still remember what time it was, where I was going, what I was thinking about, exactly where I was on I-465 and even what song I was listening to when I realized that my drug of choice at the time had kicked in for the first time. I remember that moment better than I remember losing my virginity. I was amazed. I didn’t know I could feel THAT good. For the first time, maybe ever, I felt truly happy and content being me. I finally felt how I thought everyone else felt all the time…normal.
Over the next few years, I went from using only on special occasions, like parties and 1st dates, to using when I got bored or if I was around other people who were. This quickly led to daily use because I wanted to, then to daily use because I had to. I had to take my drug of choice (which changed over the years. It started with one, then I found a whole different class of drugs I liked) not only to deal with the stress of everyday living, but also because I’d get physically ill if I didn’t have any. It was like the worst flu I’d ever gotten, except it would happen every time I went more than a day without.
When I first started using, I didn’t think it was having any effect on me, but as time went on, I really started to notice how much my mood and outlook on life had changed. I used to be eager and just knew I’d be doing big things by the time I was 30. Looking back, I can easily see how my depression was in direct correlation with my drug use. The more severe it got, the more depressed I got.
Eventually, it started taking a huge toll on me, not only mentally but physically too. I had been in really good shape before drugs, but over the years I went from really skinny to pretty fat and back again. One day, I was feeling especially bad, then I got some extremely bad news. I decided I’d had enough. I gathered up everything I had and said “Fuck it.” I did it all at once. Fortunately, I was running pretty low, so when I came to in the ER, it didn’t take much to get me back on my feet again.
A few years later, I was even more miserable. I had dropped out of college, I was living with a girl I didn't really like and we had an extremely weird relationship with each other (The whole relationship had started over dope, so of course it wasn’t a normal or healthy one), working at a job I hated and just all around miserable. Again, I felt like I had had enough. This time though, I made sure I was ready to do what I was about to do. I got a hold of an extremely potent drug called fentanyl (also known as China White) that was up to 50x stronger than heroin. I did it all at once, and to this day, I have no clue how I made it out of that one alive. It was only through a set of EXTREMELY unlikely circumstances and incredible timing that I’m still here. I was told that when my people had found me, my face was completely blue because I was barely breathing and no one could wake me up. While the paramedics were working on me, my heart stopped and I was clinically dead for just under 2 minutes. At this point, I’d love to say I’d had enough and I decided to turn my life around, but I didn’t. I wasn’t out of the hospital more than 2 hours before I had copped was high again.
This went on until I was in my late 20's. I was beyond miserable. I hated myself and my life because I wasn’t living a good one, but I also hated the fact that I couldn’t even kill myself correctly. Looking back, I can’t believe how unbelievably lucky I was, but I didn’t see it that way at the time. I wished for death every day and plotted how I would like to do it next time I tried.
Fortunately, when I was almost 30, I was in a bad [drug related] accident that left me in a coma for a couple of weeks. Believe it or not, it was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. I gave myself a traumatic brain injury that still affects me to this day, punctured my lung and broke my neck in 5 places. Before I came out of my coma, the doctors weren’t even sure if I’d even be able to feed myself on my own due to the type of brain injury I had sustained or walk again. I had to re-learn how to do things like walk again and get in and out of the shower without falling. I had to go to physical therapy for almost 2 years, but here I am.
At that point, I still hadn’t had enough. I dabbled with drugs whenever I could. The only reason I didn’t go back to being as bad as I had been was because I wasn’t allowed to drive and I had to move back in to my parents’ house. At least one of them had to be with me at all times because my neurologist said I could have a seizure any time. This was the lowest point of my life. I thought I had been miserable up to this point, but I had no idea just how bad I could really feel. I didn’t just hate myself and my situation, I despised the fact that I was still alive. I’m not even religious, but almost every morning, I’d say, “Fuck you God.” (I swear I’m not just saying that to be dramatic or whatever. I can promise you with 100% certainty that I had said those words many, many mornings during that time in my life). I didn't even believe in God, but I still said it on the off chance that God was real and was actually listening. I think I said it mostly because I had no one to blame (except myself, but I wasn’t ready to admit that yet). I had no clue I could feel so bad. I was so depressed that it felt worse than physical pain. At least with physical pain, you know you’re going to feel better. My life seemed like it was never going to get better, because up to that point, it had only gotten steadily worse.
As I said though, that accident I mentioned was the best thing that could have happened to me. It didn’t happen immediately, and actually took about 2 more years, but one day, with help from my girlfriend at the time, I decided I needed to change. I started going to Narcotics Anonymous meetings and started seeing a doctor for my depression. It took a little while, because I didn’t see any change at first, but one day I looked in the mirror and was amazed at myself when I thought about what I had accomplished and how much better I was feeling. That day, I enjoyed feeling like a person again so much that it was like a high but in a whole different way. Obviously, it wasn’t a high like I was used to, but maybe it was better because it was actually real.
Since then, my life has gotten exceptionally better. I have now been clean for over 3.5 years. In that time, I have bought my own condo, I now have a steady flow of money, I am in a relationship that is better, by far, than any I have been in before, I'm close with my family again (they actually trust me with their house key now), I've gotten back into shape, I graduated in 2016 with high honors, and am now back in school and am going to get my bachelor’s degree in the next 1.5 years and then, I'm going on to graduate school. I am happy again. I still have problems like everyone else, but I face them now instead of just going numb and running away.
To wrap it up, things do get worse for some of us than others, and I lived that way for a very long time, but I don’t get discouraged about it. All of this is part of my story that makes me who I am today So, I am proud to proof that if you want them to, and make the effort, things can get better. If I can do it, you can too. Please don’t resort to the lengths I went to make my problems go away. For the first time in a long time, I’m happy to be alive, and I’m happy to be me. You can be too. Don’t give up!
-- B
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