For a while, I've know there was something wrong with me lately. It started about two months ago. Immediately, I knew there was something wrong. Something felt horribly, and completely off, but I couldn't pinpoint what it was. I couldn't concentrate on anything. I kept thinking and dwelling on a situation I was in, all day at work. That's eight hours straight. For a period of three weeks, there wasn't a single day that passed, where I didn't cry. It wasn't once a day either. It was maybe, five or six times a day. Both at work, and at home. It was debilitating. I'd arrive home and as soon as I'd close the front door behind me, I'd sit on the stairwell, crying. I'd walk down the hallway, from my bedroom to the bathroom and just fall to my knees bawling my eyes out. Also, while taking a bath, because Lord knows I wasn't able to stand long enough to take a shower. I'd end up sitting down in the tub. As soon as I would finish my bath, I would lock myself in my room, curl up in the blankets and watch hours of Netflix to distract myself.
While at work, I didn't want to talk to anybody. Thankfully, my job is fairly solitary, and I could go with very little communication without it seeming out of the ordinary. Bed time for me became 5am. Wake up at 10:30am, and do it all over again. I felt worthless and irritated all the time. I avoided any and all types of social interaction. I didn't want to have anything to do with my friends. My need for control and structure seemed to multiply tenfold, and I didn't like doing anything that I hadn't planned or anticipated beforehand. I felt I needed to be in control at all times. What I thought was a simple disinterest in blogging, actually was a complete disinterest in everything I had once enjoyed, all the while knowing there was something wrong. Something was not right. I wanted to feel something more than helpless, hopeless, and empty, and I even got to the point where I purposely cut myself, and liked it. One likes rabbits. One likes Mexican food. One likes riding bikes. One does NOT like cutting into your own body. They shouldn't. There is something wrong with that. When I did that, I realized I needed to find help. I knew something was wrong, this wasn't me, AT ALL. I realized I was depressed. Honestly depressed. Of the eight symptoms that are common for depression in women, I had 7.5 of them. While I wasn't thinking about death, I was merely thinking about hurting myself, which is a step below that, in my opinion.
There are things a person can do to help alleviate depression, and while I have begun doing some of those things, I still need to find help. I don't know if this is something that I could be able to pull myself out of on my own. I am searching for a therapist that doesn't charge an arm and a leg to help me see things clearer and from another point of view. But the things that I have begun implementing are helping, thankfully.
It's good to finally have an answer to the questions I was having. For the last two to three months, I've just been asking myself, "What's wrong with me?", "What's going on?", "Why am I like this?". Now, I have an answer and hopefully can start working on getting myself better. Not only for me, but for my loved ones as well. Friends, and family. I never thought I would be susceptible to depression. Everyone usually knows me as the happy-go-lucky, outgoing girl. That's how I knew something was wrong. I wasn't being my normal self. The symptons were there, I just didn't see them.