So, look, here’s a thing. The lies that depression tells us are insidious, undeniable, fearsome, dreadful. Frightening. They’re not simply told to us, they lay across our eyes and everything we perceive passes through them. Telling ourselves the depression isn’t right — isn’t accurate — feels like lying to ourselves.
Things can one day somehow be better? There’s hope? We’ve been well before and we can be again? We’re allowed to feel anything but what the disease tells us is insight — is truth? These feel like lies we recite to make ourselves feel better when we don’t feel right, feel correctly, feel the good, any good at all. Believing them can feel dishonest.
Here’s another lie we tell ourselves: That we should be capable of outsmarting it. That we should toughen up. That we should be enough to cope on our own because these signals are us. That everyone gets low, gets blue, gets sad, and if we were worthy we would simply get sorted out. We can know this is bullshit and believe it at the same time. At the same time.
It is hard to accept that I cannot always be the person I want to be. I cannot always be the person you tell me I can be.
I tell myself that I’ll power through, that I don’t have to make time for this chronic illness, that the worst is behind me. I don’t know that. That’s not how this works. I have to make concessions to this thing because it’s not going away.
It’s built into the air we breathe, these ideas. They’re invisible and they’re already inside.
I don’t know if this makes me lesser than, I hope not, but I know it means I can do and be less than I’m told I can be. That’s a hard thing to face. And there it is.