Depression & Anxiety

Alright, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t know how exactly to write this piece.

There’s no light way to talk about depression and there’s no graceful way to discuss anxiety, but they need to be talked about. So, I’m going to ask you to do something for me.

Imagine you swallowed a ball of lead and you can feel it sitting in your stomach – heavy and painful and intrusive. Everything suddenly becomes more difficult. Even getting out of bed in the morning becomes a grueling task. No one can see it, but you’re definitely feeling it.

That’s depression.

Now, imagine you’re sitting at your desk and you’re pressing back on your chair until only the two back legs are on the floor. You tip just a little too much and now you’re on the brink of falling, and you have that moment of sheer panic. Your heart rate speeds and your brain turns to fight-or-flight. Except, that one moment of panic doesn’t go away. It follows you everywhere, especially when you are two minutes late to that one class…it’s the end of the world.  

That’s anxiety.

Before I go on, I want to clarify that these depictions are what these mental illnesses have looked like for me and that is not to say that this is what they look like for everyone. I can’t tell everyone’s story. But I can tell mine.

When I was 12, I started noticing the signs of depression and anxiety. But, it wasn’t until I was 15ish that I received the clinical diagnosis. I want to emphasize clinical diagnosis because it is an illness even if you can’t see it on the outside. Even if it’s your bubbly friend who you never would have guessed had it. Even if you cannot see a dark cloud that someone carries around with them. Even if you never saw it coming. Especially then.

So, I have been struggling with these illnesses for eight years now, and no part of it has been easy. Not even when it looked easy.

Usually when I tell people I struggle with depression and anxiety, they respond with “Really?! I would have never guessed!” or some version of that sentiment. While well-intended, this begs the question: how would they have guessed I struggle with these things? Should I be carrying a physical dark cloud with me everywhere I go? Should my cheeks be constantly wet with tears and should my shoulders always droop? If I’m not who they would have guessed to struggle with these mental illnesses, then who is? What does it look like?  

People expect depression and anxiety to look a certain way but everyone carries them differently. And every way someone carries mental illness is just as miserable as the next.

I don’t have answers. I am not a self-help book (though at times I may try to be). I am writing to you in the midst of a battle against depression and anxiety. I am writing to you to let you know that my last journal entry reads:

“Sometimes, there is not a light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes, [depression] is going to throw rocks at you and expect you to make fire. Sometimes, you are going to have to light the way yourself.”

And let me be the first to tell you, I am tired of feeling like I have to light the way myself. I am constantly treading water. A lot of the time, I think it would be easier to just swim down, especially when it’s a battle to convince myself to get out of bed. When I know it’s hurting my parents. When it takes every last ounce of strength in my body to walk into a party. When I am convinced that there is no progress. When I am consumed by pain. When my hands shake every time I have to meet a new person. When my chest tightens and I can’t breathe and I am swallowed by panic. I might look like a high-functioning mentally ill person, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way most of the time.

In these situations, my favorite thing to tell myself is that I am alone. That there is no possible way anyone else could possibly empathize with me. Why is it my favorite thing to tell myself is that I have to light my way by myself?

Because then I look back at all the people who have helped light the way for me. All the people who held my hands when I could not stop them from shaking. All the people who carried me on their backs when I couldn’t carry myself.

My mom, my dad, my brother. The girl whose hair has seen every shade of the rainbow. The boy who bikes. The girl who shares my name. The boy who called me Glass Rabbit. The girl who loves pasta. The boy who loves music, maybe more than me. All the best friends, the ex-friends, the boyfriends. I could go on and on about all the people who have lit a match when I was convinced I had reached the end.

These people made and continue to make me feel less isolated. I have fought long and hard to remind myself there are people in my corner. I have also fought long and hard to find things I love, like poetry and music, to help me cope.

But everyone’s mental illness looks different because everyone is going through different things.

My hope in writing this is not to just to talk about myself. That’s just not the point at all. My hope is that someone reads this and maybe thinks “Hey, me too” and maybe even just for a second feels less alone.

Because it doesn’t matter how many people tell you you’re not alone when your brain is telling you that you are. It doesn’t matter how many people tell you that you’re strong when your brain is telling you that you’re not. It might not even matter to you that I am telling you that I am depressed and that I am anxious and that I have found ways to feel less alone.

What I hope you take away from this is this: I felt purposeless at 13. I felt helpless at 15. I felt useless at 18. I feel aimless at 20. I am still very much fighting these illnesses. I know I will struggle with them for a very long time because that’s just how it is.

What I will not do is let people invalidate my pain. What I will not do is let anyone tell me I am lesser because of these illnesses. What I will not do is let anyone tell me to stay quiet and not share the struggles I face with others (if that is what I choose to do).

Mental illnesses do not make me weak and if I keep buying into the idea that I should be keeping these parts of me quiet, then I am going to continue believing that they are causes for shame.

And I am not ashamed.

By Bella Townsend

UC Berkeley student, poetry enthusiast and firm believer in Taco Tuesday.