*

Being diagnosed with depression and anxiety. Well that's maybe the weirdest thing to ever happen to me. It's shifted my whole world; I suddenly feel like an outside observer of my life. The depression symptoms had to have been brought on by the accutane, but the anxiety has been a beast in my life for almost my whole existence, I think. It's a relief to know there is something to blame my pain on, but at the same time this just opens up a whole new door of issues. I have a broken mind. And that's not something humans are real keen at fixing. I'm hesitant to put my issues in anyone elses hands, but I know I sure as hail can't handle things myself. And there is this odd self-indulgence that is reveling in this all. Like an "I told you so" sickly, twisted emotion that sometimes crawls out of it's cave to brag to me that it always knew something was wrong with me, and nothing will ever fix me. I wonder how much of this is my fault. Did I do this to myself? Can I save myself? Or am I at the mercy of a little, orange bottle of pills for the rest of my life.

Mostly I'm just exhausted, and the anxiety pills don't help. They keep everything shallow, even sleep. Sleep is my escape. I don't have the horrendous thoughts so much anymore. But i'm not necessarily anywhere near "happy." Whatever that is. So sleep is my sanctuary. It's blind.

The emotions range from anger and hate at inatimates to complete apathy and hopelessness. The apathy is my favorite, which sickens me. Apathy is a cowardly emotion. But it's such a relief. I'd rather a dead nerve than an exposed, raw, twitching nerve. I still have auto-pilot, thank heaven. You wouldn't believe how good I am at turning on the charm and joking my way through any kind of social interaction. I've been on more dates this semester than maybe my whole life. But people are so droll. And instances where I used to shine now frighten me. I spent my last Sunday at school finding the secret hallways around campus buildings to avoid seeing my wardies. Or ex-dates. Or even roommates. I didn't want to turn on the fake. But I couldn't show them the bleeding nerve either. Better to just hide all together.

I love human interaction; it's healing. But people don't understand this kind of sickness. I don't understand this sickness. And there's no tactful way to tell someone you're having suicidal thoughts. Especially when you're on fake happy auto-pilot when you do. But how do you show someone the raw, aching, shadow of yourself that hides under furniture so the world doesn't swallow them, or seeks pain so they have some control over them-self.

One of the saddest things to me is that I hid all of this from the boy I had been dating for a few months. I couldn't even approach the topic with him because of fear. I even tried confiding in his brother before telling this boy i was supposed to be safe with. I didn't want to admit it to myself or to him that I was imploding on the inside. Instead I used him as a distraction. How on earth am I ever going to be real in a relationship when I'm so terrified to show this less than perfect, but enormous, part of myself? I need someone who will understand and help me, but I don't want anyone's help. I don't want to have to depend on someone. Now the pills have completely turned off my sex drive, so I think that's created an even stronger aversion to boys. I just don't care about anything.

The hardest thing is that I've had to turn off my critical thinking. The gripping anxiety that arises whenever I try to focus was slowly destroying me. Everything had to become shallow, for fear of drowning myself. So I'm just skimming along, avoiding anything that might aggravate or hurt. I don't know if I'm making progress or digressing. Maybe this is what real life feels like, and I'll just be living with this torrential confusion and pain in my heart for always. That's fine I guess. As long as I can sleep.