About two years ago, I sat down with a therapist for the first time and we talked about depression and anxiety. At the end of our session, she asked me if I had ever considered going on medication.
To say that I’ve had quite the relationship with mental health would be an understatement. I remember one night, I was at my best friend’s apartment and we were just hanging out. Somewhere along our conversation, I told her I didn’t want to live anymore. It wasn’t a dramatic cry for help by any means, but it stemmed from a place of loneliness, emptiness, and a lack of motivation to find meaning or purpose in anything. (And to be clear, I didn’t have any suicidal plans and I didn’t get as far as to consider one) We both held each other and cried. There are some memories that are just so vividly ingrained in us no matter how much time passes.
Depression doesn’t happen overnight and honestly, I still have no explanation for how, why, or even when it developed.
Over the last few years I spent a rather large amount of time in search of my self worth and identity in places, things, and people that were never going to be definitive of who I was. These were some of my darkest moments. Moments that I’d honestly rather forget, but its existence reminds me of how I’ve grown and pushes me to take better care of myself.
I’ve come to the conclusion that physical and mental healing are quite parallel. It takes time, patience, and care. And even then, the pain revisits you when least expected. I think there will always be days that are much harder than others, but I’ve learned so much about being kind to myself.
I hope we can be people who are open to difficult and heavy conversations. Thanks for reading!