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I wasn’t really sure where to start. I’ve been journaling more and I pour my heart and soul onto those pages. There’s something about putting pen to paper that is more emotionally satisfying than typing for me. I wonder if many writers feel that way? Anyway, I don’t want my writing here to just be an extension of my personal journals, although of course, that’s exactly what this blog is.

And while my writing is directed TO you, every word I write is FOR me (I’m selfish like that, yo, and that’s okay). Can you tell that I struggle with beginnings? And endings? And middles? But that’s not the point of all this. The point is for me to write. To get it out of my head and into another format, like actual words that form coherent sentences. So I’m back at the beginning, and honestly, what better place to start than the beginning.

I’m not going to regale you with stories of my shitty childhood and my loser ass dad who quite literally hates me (when you say shit like that, people who know nothing about your fucking life always try to contradict you with soothing words and bullshit because you’ve said something so disturbing that their little minds just can’t fathom that it would be true. But trust me, I know better than you do what my life was like growing up, so just believe me when I say that my own father has made it very clear since I was a child, that he very obviously hates me.) Anyway, this story isn’t about him, and at the same time, like all my other stories, of course it’s about him. He was abusive. And that abuse was a constant feature of my life for my first 17 years so naturally it has played a very big role in me becoming the woman I am today.

Can I tell you a secret? Well of course I can because this is my damn blog and I can say whatever the fuck I want. If you don’t want to read my secrets, just move along. Easy peasy. Anyway, My not so secret-secret, is that living with depression is all I have ever known. I was diagnosed with depression at the tender age of 8 years old. What the fuck does an 8 year old have to be depressed about? Yet there I was, dutifully going to my counseling sessions and learning to express my emotions in a healthier way than attempting suicide, and at the same time going home to have my emotions beaten out of me because my dad simply didn’t like kids. All I really remember is that it was a confusing time in my life and I wanted to die.

So when I say that depression is my oldest friend, I mean that in a quite literal way. The only people that I know who can even compete with the length of time that I’ve carried this burden is my family, but I don’t think that they count because I refuse to allow them into this part of my life. I’m more comfortable talking about it with all of you lovely tea drinking strangers, than I am discussing it with my own mother and sister. Naturally, our family dynamic plays into that, but my point is that the depression is what gives me advice when things go wrong, it knows what to say when I make mistakes, it’s even there when everything is good and I’m living the life that I imagined for myself. It’s my constant companion from the moment I wake up to the moment I go back to sleep.

It’s funny that for me, depression is like the best friend we all long for. Someone who is never to busy for us and is always there when we are going through a rough patch. Except for the fact that depression is a shitty ass best friend. She tears you down instead of trying to build you up. She doesn’t want what’s best for you. She’s that friend who says, “I’m just being honest,” when they hurt your feelings instead of apologizing for being in the wrong. But depression’s worst character flaw is that she’s a liar. A compulsive liar. She lies about everything and tries to convince you that it’s the truth. And on top of all that, she’s trying to steal your life like Single White Female. She wants to revel in your successes, steal your boyfriend, and lock you out of your own damn apartment (or in this case, your own mind).

She’s that toxic friend that you don’t particularly like, but you’ve known her for so long that you feel like a shitty person for telling her that you need some space because, frankly, she’s bat-shit crazy and her crazy is just too much for you to deal with right now. The problem is that toxic people are extremely difficult to remove from your life. Once they have you in their grip, they are reluctant to let you go. And they fight dirty. Toxic people will pull out every trick in the book to try to get you to reconsider. They remind you of all the memories you had together (“remember when I was there for you through that one particularly tough time?”). They use fear (“what are you going to do without me? We are best friends!”) They promise that they will make an effort to change (“things weren’t always this bad. I can do better at respecting your feelings and boundaries.”) They use guilt (“how can you be so selfish after all I’ve done for you?) There are so many tools at their disposal, that it’s hard to cut out a toxic friend for good, even when you realize that it’s necessary for your own personal growth.

For me, depression is a toxic friend who has literally stolen my life, yet I’m just as scared to delete her from my life as I am to allow her to stay. She’s ruined everything good that I had, but I don’t know who I am without her. She has been the only stability I’ve known. The only person who I can count on to always be there. There’s a part of me that knows what to expect when I’m dealing with her and I’m terrified to step into the unknown, no matter how healing and freeing it may be. I’m afraid to not be depressed. Depression has been a crutch for me and I’m afraid to be without her.

So there’s your bit of honesty for tonight. I cant promise you anything other than brutal honesty while I sip my tea and silent tears roll down my cheeks.

Thank you all for reading!

If anything I’ve written resonates with you, please share this post with a friend or loved one. Maybe it can help them too!

Love and freedom from toxicity to you all!