by EM RUSCIANO
Depression is a bitch.
It’s lonely, boring, dark and it hurts.
It’s one of those illnesses that when you’re first diagnosed those around you rally and offer support but after a while it becomes tedious and draining on everyone and those who initially rallied back away because it’s just too much to deal with. I liken it to a death, everyone feels sorry for you but expects a bounce back once the flowers have died.
I have battled with it for as long as I can remember. Battle is absolutely the right sentiment, there were some days my inner monologue resembled the closing scenes in Braveheart.
Right now, I’m okay. That is always a fluid statement though.
I know I probably seem like the last person you’d find weekly in the fetal position on the bathroom floor at 3am crying hysterically into a pile of towels so not to wake the children.
Well I am.
And I’m sure I’m not alone.
I’d like to have a short chat about depression and suicide. (STOP. Do not avert your eyes! Press on, you can do it!)
Not sexy topics I know.
Uncomfortable for many.
Too be honest I don’t give a shit if it makes the vast majority of people uncomfortable.