I care about stuff. If you’ve watched my twitter or read my blog, that fact should be evident. “Strident” or “vocal” are words I like to use to describe myself, while I believe that (at least some of) my opinions are well-informed and correct. I criticise and argue, and my tongue can be razor-sharp.
As I previously talked about, depression has been forcing me into a “run away” mentality a great deal of the time. When I can barely handle continuing to breathe, it’s impossible to handle the emotions required for my passions.
Think about that.
My self-identity is around strength of opinion, my mental health is forcing me to run from it, stripping me of the very things I called my own. I couldn’t care or involve myself in things where I might care.
I am stripped of core facets of the story of life that I tell myself. I am deprived of my own story of success and amazement, left with only the bitter taint of what I can no longer do and memories of what once was. A day, a week, months bearing the inability to engage with the things I love, forcing a pattern that looks as though I am barely involved.
That’s what depression does to me, every time it comes to call.
But I come out of it. I remember how to care again and find the strength to hold the darkness at bay. My opinions flood back and I hold them, cherish them and bring them out once more. Knowing that I can’t keep them out for long, that I’ll be putting them away and hiding away again so very soon. But if I don’t try, I wouldn’t be me, and the depression would win.
Knowing that doesn’t make it any easier.