When my mother died, I developed depression and panic disorder. I still remember the first time I had an anxiety attack. I was in the shower, and sudden panic hit me. All I could do was lean my arm up against the wall and hope it would pass. Since then, I have suffered numerous attacks accompanied by chronic depression. To be blunt, I have wanted to kill myself for a while.
I blame a lot of things that have gone wrong in my life on my mother’s death. I don’t care how wrong or silly that sounds. I’m not saying that I don’t take responsibility for things I have done wrong or the mistakes I’ve made, but many of my problems link back to her demise. Because she died, I worry about my father and how I will deal with his inevitable death. Because she died, I was never able to fit in or develop the social skills I needed to succeed. Because she died, I became a failure. Because she died, I can’t cope with a natural part of life, death.
I will always deal with depression and chronic panic disorder. It’s ingrained in who I am as a person, and there’s no way out. I will always only experience pieces of happiness.
Pieces of Happiness
I don’t know what true happiness is. I know bits and pieces of it. I know that excited feeling when something new happens in your life. I know bursts of happiness, but I don’t know true happiness, and I probably never will. I can’t enjoy life the way other people do. I don’t know how, and now I’m afraid that it’s too late to learn.
Too Tired To Care
There are some days when I’m just too tired to care. I’m too tired to get up, and I’m too tired to talk. Mix that with unfathomable sadness, and you have the makings of a suicide victim. There are some days when I sleep just to rid myself of the pain. It usually doesn’t really work.
I Stopped Talking About It
I reached the conclusion that no one really cares about my depression and anxiety, even though I know deep down that’s not true. Either way, I stopped talking about it because I feel like everyone is tired of hearing it, even my doctor.
I’m a Failure, and I Always Will Be
I’m convinced that I’m a failure and that ending my life is the only way to deal with the burden I’ve become. I went to college, I wrote my books, but somehow none of it is good enough. I constantly feel like someone is breathing down my neck waiting for me to do something remarkable. Shocker: It’s not going to happen.
Why None of This Is Actually True (At Least Some of It)
By societal standards, I’m not a failure. My family does love me, and deep down I know that. The fact is, this is what chronic depression and panic disorders do to a person. There are some days when it doesn’t matter what you say to someone who is suffering. There are days when I feel so low that I’ve convinced myself that I’m a failure and that my family would be better off. This disease has cursed me with pieces of happiness, exhaustion, false assumptions, and false perceptions. Despite all of it, I’m still here. I’m still here because I’m a fighter, but most importantly, I’m not a quitter.