Just like everyone else, some of my days are worse than others. My worst days, however, differ from most people’s in that they are debilitating. A psychiatrist at the hospital I was admitted to last year explained it this way: everyone has a range of emotions, ups and downs (here he used hand gestures to indicate a normal range.) But when the ups and downs go beyond the normal range–that is the realm of mental disorder.
It’s hard to think rationally at times like these, it really is. In a normal mood, I have no more desire to die than anyone else. But in one of my depressed moods, it’s hard to maintain the will to live. I find myself tired all the time, and I sleep frequently as a means of escaping life. In my more severe depressed episodes, I stop caring about everything and everyone, and whatever promises I might have made to keep myself safe. In the past, episodes like these have occasionally reached their natural culmination: suicide attempts, including an incident with a noose, and a separate plan involving my car. The bleakness and gripping, compelling sadness is impossible to explain frankly and directly. I remember one morning while taking my antidepressant looking at the bottle and wondering how many it would take to kill me.
The good thing is, I have people like my family and a few close friends who know about pretty much everything, accept me as I am, and support me. I can honestly say that without my closest friends and family, I would have succeeded in one of my attempts and all my years of doing impressively well in academics would have been for nothing. Some people I wasn’t even expecting to surprised me with their concern and support for me; a couple of teachers come to mind. And, though I was frustrated with her at the time, I even have my psychologist to thank for not letting me drive home and calling my mother to pick me up and take me to the hospital once.
In conclusion, though my depressive episodes are frequent and sometimes severe, I think I’ll be okay.