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The Bad Day

Depression is something strange, among many, many other things. The more I live with it, the stranger it gets.

I’m happy. I’m at a place where I do things that I love, I am taking time to find my true calling and to write, I have exceptional friends and a soul family I adore, and I have a few connections with people that are beyond magical. Supernatural in its various and different facettes makes me the happiest I have been in a very long time. And, on top of all of this, there’s my convention baptism that is just around the corner, and that makes me dizzy with joy, anticipation and excitement. Things are good. I am more than okay despite a few minor setbacks from surgery and I am enjoying how my new self look. I am content with my own self inside and out.

And yet.

However good things are overall, depression likes to rule over your life even in your best days.

I have lows. Lows are more and more easy to manage because I know when they are here and I know I have to triple down my own efforts to fight them. But I can detect when I am on a downward path to my own hellhole. Lows aren’t my problem, currently. Maybe they aren’t anymore. Maybe they are just taming themselves, kicked down by Jared’s immeasurable advices and good words that are working miracles on my cracks.

Highs can be tricky. They are because they will eventually induce crashing down moments and those are traitors. I enjoy highs because they make life so much better, but I am cautious around them. I have a strong handle on them anyway. I am learning day in, day out how to turn highs into solid and constant elevations rather than irregular and vaguely menacing spikes.

It’s the in between that is the hardest part. And it is the longest, most common, almost routine side of my existence. Some are good days. Some are bad days. None of those are really dangerous. They just…Are.

Today has been and still is one of those. Full disclosure : the Winchesters have been called and are on their way home. Which means that in a little while, I won’t be focusing on myself and the gaps and holes and tears and cracks in my soul because they will gently (or not so gently) soothe it and make me see beyond my own fights and my own wins and my own losses, and they will remind me how much of a warrior I have to be to be there and be strong and be aware of my friend’s pains and struggles and give my time and my energy and to keep my head way, way above the dark waters. Supernatural is my safe haven. My good place. My happy place. My own, private heaven.

But it doesn’t erase the progress I make even during those weird, badly outlined days. And how aware I am of my own triggers, and the things that will set me in an anxiety path and wake up little demons no one but me can salt away.

My biggest anxiety lately is the fear of being left away, overlooked, forgotten when I am away. The fear of not being missed. I suppose that it had been fed off my health scare (“terror” is a more fitting word, actually) and the concern you suddenly have, when facing your potential demise, that soon enough, nobody will miss you anymore and your name will be lost in the winds of a vague memory people won’t even be sure they didn’t created, rather than it existed. So, when I feel like I am being ignored by the false pretenses of a twitter setting or that my opinions are ignored or dismissed in the flow of the conversations, it pains me a lot more than it should. And I know that rather than letting the light show through my cracks, it shows the opposite. The fear and the pettiness and the selfishness and the neediness and everything I fight all year long. But that is the way this disease crawls back in, fragment of dust by fragment of dust. I am fine, I am good, but I know it is a fight that never stops and that those dust powders needs to be acknowledged in order to sweep them out.

Depression is like the abusive relationship you can’t seem to get rid of. You never let it come in the first place but once it is there, you let it question your every move and every thought and you let it convince you that you don’t exist outside of that permanently shrinking realm. There is no running away, no fleeing it on a dare. It will eventually find you back. On nothing. On a poorly worded sentence, on a badly managed sleep pattern, on a loss of a favorite sports team or on a troll trying to breathe hate, on a difference of opinion you wrongly feel is targeted at you, or on wishing you could be closer to the people who matter. It can use anything to twist your emotions and make you feel useless and emotional and like your own pace is either to slow or too fast to catch on the world’s. I am finding my pace. It just isn’t the same each day and I have to adapt myself to my own self each day, and to what version of myself is allowed for public consumption, and what version isn’t.

It is a learning curve. You can not kick depression like you would, say, a demon tablet-sized tumor. You go under, you get cut wide open, and someone with skills take out the problem, and when you wake up, it is only a question of when you will be able to walk back from it on your own two feet and to breathe easy and to build whatever you want to build from that point on. It leaves a scar only, however big. A trace of a fight long gone. It’s not possible to surgically remove depression. And at times…And often, actually, I wish it were. Because it is easier to explain to people. Because you have a scary, terrifying procedure to prove how brave you are to handle this. Because once it’s gone, it’s gone. Because there are physical proofs that something is wrong with you. A scan picture. An ultrasound video. Numbers on a blood test result. Appointments and meds and injections and painkillers and tubes and nurses and the all-too common hospital journey. It is palpable. At best, with the toughest of mental illnesses downfalls, you get medicated beyond measure and overlooked as the weak creature whose problems can’t be handled.

Depression is a sad mistress. A fake friend. And such a hard, lonely, unsafe path. Despite the encouraging liberation of the narrative around it, and how more and more and more and more people get inspired to tell their stories, and that, all of a sudden the whole world realizes that everyone knows someone, be it a close kin or the person in the mirror, it is still a poorly lit tunnel with no end in sight. I do hope that it is about to evolve, and that all those people inspiring others to open up and own their stories, however broken and messy they could be, are hints that this path won’t be as hard to travel as it currently is. I am hopeful. I am optimistic. I do believe this is not an end in itself. And that one day, I will be fully aware that I didn’t bring it on myself. That I am worth the time and the efforts and the emotions and the engagement and the worries. That it won’t keep me up at night that people doesn’t really appreciate who I am, or that I am too peculiar to be more than tolerated.

It is just one of those days. I’m fine. I’m fighting.

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