I looked through some old stuff of mine today. It seems like the past three weeks have been about understanding around when hell began. I found a diary from when I was 13, seven years ago. As I read it I’ve noticed some minor symptoms of depression, so, the illness actually existed a long time before I knew it, but it definitely reached its peak two years ago.
I just joined the army then, and lasted four days. It was the purest hell I couldn’t imagine. Pain, all over. Not that physical, tolerable pain. Emotional pain. Nothing seemed important anymore. Not my family, not my life. Then, on the third day they handed me a rifle. As tempting as it was to take it and just shoot myself, a part of me slapped that other, suicidal part, and so I refused. But it was no use. They made me take it. For the first time I spoke my thoughts and so they made me carry it empty and not loaded, and also had me talk to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist suggested I’ll go home for a few days, so I did. I won’t lie when I’ll say it was good to be home, but the feeling of despair still haven’t left me. I got to a point where I couldn’t function. I was constantly tired and haven’t ate a decent meal for days. It was Sunday, and I was supposed to head back for base, but I couldn’t. As the days passed I sank deeper in my own shit, and everyone around me didn’t understand what’s wrong. A month passed and eventually the army let me go.
But the feeling didn’t. I started going to a psychiatrist occasionally, being fed with meds and the good old-“everything’s gonna be okay”, nothing changed. They told me that different meds affect different people, so I felt like a guinea pig for six months until they prescribed me with Prozac which helped a little. But a little is not enough. As my illness kept beating my soul I found a painkiller known as alcohol. I woke up to a glass of vodka and anytime I started feeling – I drank more. One night I had a feeling that was the last night I’ll experience alive. I drank so much I lost control and got violent. It fully brought out the animal in me. All the rage I kept inside just poured out of me. I almost hurt the one I love.
I got hospitalized. It took me just a few hours in intensive custody to understand that it’s time to get better, that it’s time to fight harder. Eventually they let me go home though with many doubts. I quit alcohol the next day. Followed by heart wrench and shaking I found comfort in painting. I haven’t drank for three months. I actually did get better. Not healthy, but better. From the start I knew in the back of my mind it will never fully go away. I learned to restrain it though, more or less. From time to time I slip to a dark path but I find a way back to feeling OK. There will always be that white noise that depression play in life. Of course, there are days I want to hurt myself, and there are days I actually hurt myself, but I’m not sure anymore if I want to die.
I still can’t fully function. I can’t work and I’m having trouble taking care of a place of my own, but I’m working on that, and I wish you the best of luck with your struggle.