All I Wanted for My Birthday Was To Be Depressed
Another year around the black hole sun.
The swift, circulating motion of the ceiling fan seemed to be teasing my whirring mind. The day had broken and I was officially another year older. The day, even month, leading up to it, I had chosen to ignore this coming reality. Usually, I’m secretly excited about it. I never make a big deal about it, but having a day that feels special to you is kind of nice isn’t it?
I hope people remember, reach out, and assuage my worries that everyone has forgotten me, like a darker version of Sixteen Candles. I wouldn’t get the guy at the end of this one though: I’d just get Grade A major depression instead.
A thought occurred to me the night before the big day. I no longer cared about being wished a happy one, blowing out the candles, or doing anything fun. The best gift I could receive, I reckoned, was to be able to just sit in the depressive state that had reared its head back around. When I laid down to go to sleep, I figured maybe I would just stay in this bed forever.
Suddenly, I found myself dreading the texts or voicemails of people singing wildly out of tune celebrating my birth. I felt much the opposite. A quiet death on crumpled sheets of exhaustion, and pillows of tears, actively denying myself any joy on this day. The leaded balloon of depression was floating above me, about ready to pop, but never giving way completely. Sinking into that bed was all I could think to do, was all my mind could instruct me to do, and when I awoke, I found this was not a nightmare after all.
I thought I wouldn’t be the type of person to freak out about what number their body happens to be at now. What a young, and naïve assumption about myself. Time, for as arbitrary as it is, loves to twist the knife in at certain precipices of our lives. This is where I found myself, and this is what triggered this particular bout of depression.
I now was someone who cared about my aging, not necessarily because my physical being was going to start asking questions and taking revenge out on me for daring to do the inevitable, but more because of where I was at, or the lack of being anywhere really.
The circumstances of my life were pretty pathetic, I felt I paled in comparison to even the bed I was sprawled out on, at least it could hold and lift things. What was I doing to uplift myself or others? What did I have to my name? What was I doing with my life? Why am I such a spectacular failure? Yes, as you can see, I ended up in a pesky negative thought spiral. The sneaky, and seductively dangerous sidekick to the depressed.
Contemplating if I should, indeed, get up that morning, I focused my blurry eyes on the clock. The glowing, green numbers loomed over me like numerical ghosts, haunting me with my fleeting youth. A countdown to nowhere. I dared not look at my phone, the phantom of the blue light shocking my system into further despair.
I should be grateful anyone bothers to send me a message at all, but that’s a tricky game. I knew if I looked at that screen, I would just be adding shit sprinkles of guilt onto an already outfitted shit sundae. The stench of my inadequacy wafted over the bedroom, seeking to suffocate me in the process.
Guess what? Despite all of that rattling around in my mind, I got up. Maybe it was out of obligation, or for appearances, but when you’re that low you’ll take any reason as a good one to keep going. I sat on the end of my bed, just staring at the doorknob for a few minutes. The contemplations I had were not deep ones, but common ones all the same.
The tug of war between whether I should give this day a try or if I should just fall back onto the mattress.
I thought maybe if I stared at it long enough it would open itself for me, out of sheer pity. Eventually, when I realized my mind powers would not work, I grabbed for the doorknob.
Suddenly, I found myself on the literal threshold of which way this birthday would go. Active, be active, take action. This is what I always tell myself, the best way to overcome is just to do something.
So, with one foot in front of the other, I managed to get out of that room and face the day before me. That would be enough, I figured, that would be the one thing I was able to get done, and getting anything done while deeply depressed is a miracle in and of itself. I consider it watering a plant because I surely am not blooming at this moment, but if I keep at it, one day I will, and I will be happy I kept that water can on hand.
The rush of exaltation one may receive on their birthday is almost too much to bear. Again, I found myself stimulating my shame for not being thankful. Everyone else can enjoy it and let their egos take it in for a little while, why can’t I? Comparisons become all too easy when your mental defenses are down. They create a great thicket of weeds that no machete can chop away.
I was overwhelmed with the idea that anyone paid attention, that anyone cared because of course, I operate under the belief that I am unlovable. One of the lovely vices of my depression is that it has me desperately wanting to be loved, but almost always unable to accept it when it’s around.
Tackling my way through these thoughts, I went on with the day anyway, allowing myself to walk with the shadow it casts. Pure movement helps. The physicality of even a walk down the road shows me I am more than the blotches of ink that cloud my mind far too often. The exhibition of control gives me back some agency and blazes a trail ahead of me that brightens up the tunnel exit. I move towards it.
Happily, I can report, I ended up having a nice day.
The depression was still there, lurking around every corner and under each step I took, but I made it through. Sometimes the best we can do exemplifies the best of who we are. It is far too easy to judge the imperceptible, but the struggle with mental illness is often incremental. We must not confuse what comes easy to us as what comes easy to everyone. I know in that instance I had climbed a mountain no one had seen. Plunging my cleated boots into its hairy summits of pain, and grief and conquering its pointed peaks that would seek to stab to me.
I returned to bed that night, not completely out of the woods, but relieved to see the other side of them in front of me. My belly was full with, not only cake but the sweet victory of toppling that which wanted to keep me in this room.
Pulling the covers over myself, I did not hide under them, I swaddled myself to show that the love I pine for can from me if I keep excavating through the sewage.
Before I closed my eyes to another trip around the sun, I clicked off that fan and reveled in the gift of a quieting mind.
