<aside> <img src="/icons/groups_red.svg" alt="/icons/groups_red.svg" width="40px" /> a.k.a. people I thought wouldn’t like me if they knew who I was

</aside>

Note: This is not a suicide note. I will note that I have struggled with those thoughts in the past, and not even the distant past. But notably, I’m writing this as a way to reach out, and ask for help and love, and I hope it doesn’t strike a sour note with anyone. Sorry for all the note, note jokes.

I don’t know where to start, other than, “hi, I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I miss you, I care about you, and I hope you can forgive me.”

I deal with depression, anxiety, and possibly bi-polar II disorder (the psychiatrist is still out on that one). I have dealt with these issues to one degree or another since about 5th or 6th grade, and there are periods in my life where it has been completely debilitating. I’m sort of in one of those periods right now.

Please understand that, when you think of me, you might not think any of those descriptions apply to me—or if you do, fine you were right, there was something wrong with me all along, but at least now I know what it is—and the reason you don’t is because I worked hard to not let anyone see it. To see me. I thought for a long time that hiding was the best way to not get hurt. But ultimately it has hurt me more than anything else could have.

I always thought that depression was just people being sad or goth, or kids who came from a broken home, or had some trauma in their life. It was people who wore black and talked about killing themselves all the time, and listened to metal. And because I didn’t identify with those people, I couldn’t be depressed. I got good grades in high school, I excelled in sports, and life was generally pretty good, but I never felt like I really deserved it.

I now know that the way people cope with their struggles can look like some of those things, but it doesn’t do justice to the actual mental crises that are involved in depression and mental illness. Sometimes it means you don’t get out of bed for days on end. Or if you do it’s just enough to get up and find something to eat. Sometimes it has meant that I poured my energy into one or two things, while the rest of my life suffered.

For me it has been a sense of loneliness, of being “other”. That, no matter what, I didn’t measure up, and the future wasn’t going to get better. I thought the next achievement, or purchase, or relationship could fill that void and make me happy. That I would be worth something then. But when I got there, it didn’t, and I wasn’t. I believed that just trying to follow my religion more closely would make me feel better, so I wouldn’t feel like a sinner all the time, but that came with its own baggage, and ultimately left me feeling more worthless than before. I felt that no one would ever, or could ever, truly love me; it’s this knowledge deep in my psyche that no amount of friendship, love, religion, achievement, or accolades could solve. I was my mental illness.

For many reasons, I felt ashamed. Of who I was, of myself, my body, my sexuality, and the way all of those things intersected with my religion, and all the beliefs I had grown up with. I felt like there was constantly something wrong with me. I felt so ashamed, that often, especially when I was younger, I would do anything to try to fit in.

Often it took the form of self-righteousness. Of pretending I was better than everyone, and that I had the answers. I have often been—and many times, still am—condescending. I would look down my nose at people that didn’t seem to be normal. I did it colleagues, peers, and strangers. But worse, I did this to my friends and family, and I have driven many would-be friends away like this.

Denial is a hell of a drug, and it has kept me from seeking help for such a long time. I am writing this as a way to stop running (haha, get it? cause I was a runner, except I kinda stopped running a long time ago… except I didn’t… never mind, I’m kind of weird sometimes) and to let you all know that my decisions not to reach out, to stay in contact, and make you all a part of my life, have been part of my illness, and not anything that you have done or said to me.

I am currently seeing a therapist, and a psychiatrist, and I’m on anti-depressants and mood-stabilizers. I haven’t fully figured out what will work for me, and I struggle every day. But I am finally taking this seriously, and I am finally able to recognize that this is a part of me, for better or worse, and I am trying not to let my ego or the stigmatization of mental illness prevent me from seeking the help I need.

To to all of you reading, and anyone I have hurt or offended, I’m sorry. I don’t know if that means anything now, and I realize that a blanket apology doesn’t begin to make up for my behavior, or cover the ways in which I’ve hurt people I love, but I hope it can be a beginning.

With hope for a brighter tomorrow,

Chris