I wish you could understand that I am not telling you I am suffering from depression because I need you to fix me. I am not asking you to fix me.
I am telling you this because you are a close friend or family member, and even though I feel pretty horrible about myself, I would feel even worse if I lied to you. I am telling you this because I want you to know I am not avoiding you on purpose.
I want you to know that there’s a reason behind my tears.
I am ill. It has taken me some time to recognize depression an illness, just like you would get a big, nasty cold and would not be able to do anything about it, just try and cure it and wait until it gets better. It has also taken me a while to understand that pain and despair are relative measures and that there is no “good” or “bad” reasons to suffer.
I don’t need your advice.
Chances are, I probably already thought of everything you are thinking of telling me. I do not need you to tell me that the reasons why I’m unhappy are not “that big of a deal”. Of course they are. To me. I do not need to you recommend to me to try and keep my daily routine, stop crying, put a smile upon my face.
“Stop making such a big deal out of this and come outside, it’s sunny”, “there’s so many things you could do to feel better!”. Of course there are. I know it. My brain knows it. If I’m not doing all those things, it’s because I am unable to.
My depression has somehow blurred the line between inability and unwillingness. Sometimes I just feel like I don’t want to do anything. I have to stop and think and then I realise I am not a masochist. It’s not that I don’t want to feel better, and move on with my life. I simply can’t.
Although I don’t know what to do, I don’t need you to tell me. It is most likely you wouldn’t know how to make me feel better.
What I need is for you to listen to me. To hug me. Stroke my hair when I cry. Tell me everything will be fine. Remind me the reasons why you love me, and why I should love myself. Remind me I am a person, that I am not defined by my illness. Support me. Be there. Listen to me cry, make me some tea, tell me I can call you whenever.
I most probably won’t call you. But somewhere in the dark mess that my soul has become, your words will speak to my heart. When I feel better, I will remember what you did. When I’m functional enough to thank you, I will do so with all my heart.
P.S: Something borrowed as words will never be enough for people who are going through it. My heart goes out there. Somewhere.