Saturday was the first good day I’ve had in a few weeks now.
I felt Real Emotions, and by the grace of God, they were happy ones.
I got up at a reasonable time, I was productive, and I actually wanted to be social.
By the time Saturday evening rolled around, I told my roommate that I wanted to meet her at the bar after she was done with her dinner plans. I thought that getting out of the house for an evening, and not doing the exact same self-destructive thing I had done every night for the last two weeks, (Netflix, multiple glasses of wine, and bed for the entire evening), would be good for me.
The after-dinner hour of 9:30 pm rolled around, but by then, I was well on my way to a night in. I had started to come down from my day of social interactions, and all my instincts were telling me to stay curled up in bed with some TV on to distract me from myself.
I had bailed on the same friends the night before, though, and having already agreed to go, I forced myself up, threw some make-up on top of my smudged eyeliner, and, that already being too much energy spent, called a car to drive me the five blocks to the bar.
I arrived, and in this rare instance, I did actually feel better, thanks to the alcohol and the company.
But as I expected, before long, the initial spark I felt upon arrival diminished. The depressant I was consuming in the form of a mojito began to take effect, and the last thing I wanted to do was smile like a puppet so as to keep everyone around me more comfortable. All I knew was I wanted to get away from all the people.
I made the rounds, saying goodbye to everyone I had been talking to. It was only about 12:30 at this point, so by this crowd’s standards, I was calling it an early night.
“Why are you leaving?” they asked.
I don’t know if I was just at my wit’s end, or if the recent posts from everyone on Bell Let’s Talk day made me believe they actually wanted the truth, but either way, my response was: “I’m just depressed.”
I said it in the same way I would have said if I wasn’t feeling well. That tone you take when you want to convey that it’s your body, not you, that is preventing you from continuing to drink yourself sick.
“Why are you depressed – what’s wrong?” one man asked.
“Because I have depression,” I said. “So that happens sometimes.”
Breaking the stigma is something I want to do. I work for it, and I try to talk as openly as I can about my own struggle so that those around me can feel comfortable talking to me about it. But sometimes, for an already emotionally and mentally drained person, the extra ‘oopmh’ that’s needed to admit your very real weakness to a near-stranger, or even a friend, is enough to put your already teetering emotional stability over the edge.
I went home and for the first time in what has generally been an emotionless two weeks, I cried myself to sleep.