Over the past year, i’ve discovered the many-faceted, myriad ways in which Depression totally sucks.
Unlike some unfortunate people i know, my sadness is not chemical. I don’t have the burden of feeling as though i’m losing my mind because i have no “reason” to be depressed.
Instead i feel like i’m losing my mind because i know exactly why i am depressed. It’s ever-present, lurking in the back of my mind, waiting for some opportune, vulnerable moment in which to strike.
Like some kind of tentacled creature from the deep.
When it rises and strikes, it’s not always triggered by something big, like an anniversary of the death which birthed the depression, or stumbling across some toy or trinket or photo that reminds me of the person i lost.
Sometimes, it’s because my bag of Gummi Life-Savers ran out or it’s raining out.
And then, sudden and brutal, like a blinding crack of pain from an unexpected punch, it’s on.

Depression is sort of like having multiple-personality disorder, where, at certain semi-lucid intervals, the two sides of your brain can actually communicate. And usually, one is beating the living Hell out of the other, unsuspecting half.

It usually arrives on a nice quiet day, too - sort of like a rogue Jehovah’s Witness with serious anger issues:

Depressed Me: Knock knock..

Normal Me: Oh, fuck…you again? Look, i’d love to chat, but, you know - i’ve got a lot to do this week, and you know things are going pretty good. My job is great, i have a wonderful boyfriend, i’ve not had a drink in four months, so…really, we don’t need any. Thanks. Bye, now.

DM: *knocks Normal Me out at the door, drags me inside and ties me up and tortures me with pointy objects for the next several weeks*

And, like any good terrorist-kidnapper Evil Alter-Ego, Depressed Me interferes when i try to call out for help. In a futile attempt at escape, for instance, last night i reached to my boyfriend in order to try and drag myself out away from the dark, dank, rat-infested holding tank of my brain. But Depressed Me was on to my plot, and ripped the laptop out of my hands and took over, pretending to be Normal Me - unbeknownst to the innocent, unsuspecting boyfriend. The conversation went something like this:

Normal Me: I’m feeling pretty down right now…i don’t know, for no reason at all i’m just especially sad about Jamie. Everything reminds me of him. This apartment, for instance.

Innocent Boyfriend: Oh, i’m so sorry baby. It will be ok, you’ll be ok. I know it’s tough being in places that remind you of him, but ultimately you can’t run, the memories will still be there no matter where you are. The thing is to just try and find healthy ways of dealing with it while you’re living there.

*Here is where Depressed me discovers me at the computer, shoves me out of the way and takes over the conversation*

Depressed Me: Arrrgh! You don’t understand! NOBODY understands! Just leave me alone, alone to DIE!

IBF: Um, baby…i’m just saying that maybe if you find some ways of coping that make you feel better, anything, it would be good…instead of sinking deeper into it and letting it take over…i love you.

DM: STOP JUDGING ME!!!

Later on, when Depressed Me got worn out and shuffled off to the corner to relax and idly rip the wings off butterflies, Normal Me was able to sneak back online to speak with the IBF, and try to salvage the situation.
Hopefully, i can devise a plan which will allow me to escape her evil clutches - maybe a nice tank full of butterflies for instance - and then i can get my brain back.
For now, however, i feel her lurking there, right behind my frontal lobe, with an axe.

It was worse when i let her drink.
In those days, when she’d taken down a bottle of vodka and had done taking over my mouth, i was the one that had to clean up the damage. Which was kind of like walking into a room full of dead puppies and everyone is looking at you, because your Evil Twin just took an ice-pick to the little critters…and everyone knows it but you.
Then, the self-loathing kicked in, which made Normal Me curl up in the corner to lick the asbestos off the walls while Depressed me took a swig out of a bottle of Absolut, pulled on her Steel-toed boots and went to town on my kidneys and other vulnerable body parts.

I don’t let her drink anymore.

But that doesn’t mean she’s not still an unpleasant bitch. She’s just an unpleasant bitch that doesn’t verbally cut people to ribbons and then burst into tears and run out into the night with suicidal rage anymore.

If i take Modern Psychology as my guide, then apparently i need to “integrate” Depressed Evil Bitch Me and Normal Me into some kind of cohesive whole. In other words, embrace my depression - which is sort of like embracing a pit of venomous snakes.
Or trying to hug that big, ugly kid with the overhanging brow who used to body-slam you on the playground.
But then, i remember that i like snakes and other creepy crawly things, and really, the prospect of being afraid of that ugly playground kid of my psyche for the rest of my life doesn’t really appeal.
And i remember that time i had to give advice to a little boy who was worried about a bully at school who had been beating him up. The teachers had been no help, and the parents of said child were just as cro-magnon as their offspring. It was not looking good.

“Hit him back,” i said, like a good example of modern parenthood.
“Um. Really?”.
“Totally. If you don’t, he’ll keep it up. Hit him back and i guarantee he’ll never mess with you again. You might even be friends afterwards.”

And, lo and behold, it worked.
I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, in terms of my Evil Twin, i need to hit back - so the two of us can finally shake and make up. And just maybe, the next time she comes out of her little pit in the back of my brain, i can make her a cup of tea and we can have a nice chat. Because i suspect, like any good bully, she’s secretly just really lonely and needs a friend - she just lacks any semblance of social grace and has a bit of a chip on her shoulder.
Maybe if i open the door instead of making her kick it in, we’ll get along a little better.
At the very least, maybe she’ll stop beating me up in the playground.