How long can I hate myself for? August 16, 2010Posted by Lauren Cooke in Depression.
Tags: Depression, Life, relationships, sadness, suicide
Please feel free not to read this. It isn’t fun, it isn’t exciting, it is just what is going on in my head that I need to get out.
When you are depressed, it often feels like you are the only one who has ever felt like this. You whine, and grump, all the time assuming that you are the only person who knows exactly what it feels like to be this low. When you peer over a high drop and catch yourself thinking about how much easier it would be if you jumped, you forget how many other people have felt like this. Are feeling like this. Still, selfish and self-obsessed as this may be, it is so hard to break yourself out of the routine. You find yourself blogging about it more and more, because only when you get it out of yourself do you feel like you can go on. You worry that if you stop paying attention to the depression, you will be nothing. You will fade gently out of existence, and no-one will notice you disappear.
I don’t know why I can’t get out of this negative groove. I don’t even really know what set it off, although I expect the fact that I am single and have been living a stressful life has something to do with it.
When I think about it, I don’t know why I was so OK when Ben and I broke up. I think I plunged myself into a deep sense of denial, and I happily skipped through life trying my hardest to ignore just how much my life had changed. Despite the fact that in essence I had lost the best friend I had ever had, I tried to pretend I was fine. Then, against my friend’s advice, I ended up getting involved with someone. Despite the fact that I was probably far too vulnerable to be doing that to myself, I got wildly excited, and somewhat over-enthusiastic. When that ended, as everyone could have predicted it would, that was when my well-constructed barriers fell down and I tipped neatly over the edge. It wasn’t the situation itself, more that it functioned as a trigger, the one last thing that left me alone in my new house, sobbing, scared, and hating myself.
You see, that is the thing. I tipped over into full-blown self-hatred. Of course it wouldn’t have worked – I am a hyperactive idiot, ugly, over-reliant. I’m shallow, unintelligent. I am a bore to be around, none of my friends will ever want to see me, people feel like they are wasting their time by being around me. Why would a funny, good-looking man want anything to do with me? I have always been a drain on a relationship, Ben is probably better off out of it, I am stupid and foolish and far too loyal. I hated my attitude, my beliefs. I looked in the mirror and wished I didn’t have a reflection staring back at me. This degree of self-hate is the sort I only ever experience when zooming headlong into a full bout of depression, and I reiterate that this is almost definitely the backlash from the end of a long and lovely relationship.
The self-hate has slowed now. My inadequacies, many failings, and aesthetic let-downs (i.e. my face!) aren’t constantly running around my head at a million miles an hour. However, what has been left behind is a thoroughly battered shell of a mind. I am thinking about suicide far more often. I keep catching myself thinking about how easy it would be to be out of life. Sometimes I see the silliest things, and it makes me cry.
The question is, how long until I can respect myself again? How long until I am disappointed with every tiny little quality that makes me the individual I am? How long until I stop Facebook stalking people and believing I am the idiot they are discussing on their walls? How long until I stop feeling unworthy of anyone liking me, let alone loving me?
I was going to end this post with a few things about myself that I do actually like. A booster of sorts, designed to remind me of my good qualities. There must be something about me that I admire and respect, there must (theoretically) be something about myself that others like. I presume I am not an entirely repellent human being? I presume Ben, and Piers, and all the other men who have ever been interested in me must have seen something to encourage them to get involved at all? The problem is, I can’t think of anything. I am chubbier than I ever used to be, I am irritating, I am uninteresting. Perhaps people are better off not knowing me, silly and melodramatic as it sounds.