The Permanent Roommate

Yes, we are still “celebrating” (okay, that may not be the right word) Depression Awareness and Education Month here at Invisible Inks.

I will continue sharing the new Suicide Hotline information as we delve into the twists and turns of this mental health flavor. Any time you need to talk to someone, remember there IS someone to listen. (As opposed to that irritation we’re going to discuss this week)

Are you a loner or a social person?

I started living in my head as a child. Not in the traditional “imaginary friend” way adults associate with tiny humans. More along the lines of an imagination strung out on Pixie Stix and Kool-Aid (without actually getting to overindulge in either—thanks, Mom and Dad).

Constantly alienated by my peer group, I spent my isolation building strange—and potentially alarming—worlds and creatures in the recesses of my brain to entertain myself. All of those characters took up valuable real estate in my cranium, making it easy for depression to shuffle in, unobserved and quiet.

Because what was one more bizarre personality in a sea of unusual and unexplainable that would have put Lewis Carroll and Tim Burton to shame? Save that depression and all its attendant habits were a damn sight more dangerous than even the most ferocious beast I ever dared to conjure.

And it looked perfectly innocuous.

Do you share food?

The warning signs were subtle, though: Tentative whispers from the background when I overheard the first giggles from my peer group.

My weight exceeded that of the girls around me. (Kids never more creative than “Andria the Giant”) Lined up in the classroom by size, I always found myself at the back—an object of easy ridicule. (Too damn tall for my own good; a proper bone structure they failed to discuss in elementary school)

That shadowy presence lurking on the fringes of my fantasy world merely took the fodder offered up by my classmates and expanded on their themes. Away from school, I found the taunts twisting through my inner ear. A glance into the mirror became tarnished, doused with the image of a rotund monster wearing my face.

I accepted the perversion, and depression gained its first foothold.

Do you wash your dishes right away or pile them in the sink?

Depression introduced “the excuse” to my life.

Embarrassed by the multitude of invisible fat rolls on my body, I turned down invitations to pool parties and sleepovers. Anything that allowed female friends to glimpse more of my flesh than I felt comfortable exposing. The joy of swim team became an agonizing chore, as I huddled longer and longer within the safety of a coverup, inching toward the start platform.

And every avoidance sent me running for the (imagined) safety of my mental companions. Alone and miserable, I sought out the very monster that had isolated me from the outside world.

Blindly, foolishly falling prey to the very villain of my tale. (No publisher in the world would have bought it)

Do you borrow clothes without asking?

My head was no longer the fantasy world I longed to escape to.

The characters I created and relied on to carry me through the most difficult challenges found themselves supplanted by a growing tyrant. Every conversation I attempted to craft and lose myself within twisted, turning into self-recrimination. (Naturally, I MUST want to discuss my latest mistake or failure. Why else had I descended to the mental plane?)

My thoughts were hijacked. And every word of every insult I happened to overhear became free game. Depression squirreled the syllables away to slam into my brain at inopportune moments. (No permission given)

Whatever filter I’d once employed over my conscious had been shredded to pieces.

What kind of music do you listen to? How loudly?

I became the poster child for depression.

Endless loops of Sad FM played over headphones that tumbled me into the wasteland that was all that remained of a once thriving world of imagination. I exorcised color from my wardrobe, believing the cheerful shades were more deserving of people with friends, social lives, and bodies worthy of display. The glittery, vibrant, and sing-song accouterments of my previous imagination drifted away, sliding through my fingers.

I couldn’t hear anything over the accusations in my head. (Who turned the volume up on my insecurity?) Screaming replaced the hissed suggestions of the past. I could no longer summon the strength to argue for the rights and privileges of my fun-loving—and slightly deranged—characters. So I watched their voices silence under a deluge of self-hatred, doubt, and false misery.

And it was easier to sit and watch as depression raged around me than to question its hostile takeover.

Do you go to bed early or late?

My imagination had often bedazzled me with stories and escape as I attempted to drift to sleep each night. The meandering tales provided hours (or was it minutes? Time moved so differently in that world) of distraction from the snoring around me.

But things were different without that precious intervention. Lost in the endless circles of depression’s scrutinization, the nights stretched on interminably long. (That construct of time again) I had too many hours to replay minute mistakes. Too many opportunities to rewrite conversations and pick out insults I’d overlooked the first time.

Sleep became an endless whirlpool that refused to drown me.

When you’re angry, do you lash out or use the silent treatment?

Now and then, depression’s presence waned.

I’d wake up and find myself able to take a full, deep breath. Everything in the world returned to normal (or as close as it was ever going to get with me). And I could embrace old familiar characters, the creatures of wonder I’d lost touch with. The tightness in my brain eased, and the shadows retreated to the fringes, content to allow the sunshine to return for a few stunning hours.

I never understood where those moments came from. (Did I cause them? Were the stars aligned? Was it something I ate? Something I DIDN’T eat?)

And I failed to appreciate the freedom they represented.

Or the penalty I’d need to pay when everything reasserted itself once again. Because depression was a cruel mistress, determined to exact revenge for any strides gained. And biding in silence, it made notes (a better researcher than I) and prepared arguments for its return.

That nightmare was something to dread, casting a pall on my brief glimpses of color and song.

How would you describe your friends?

The longer depression lived within my head, the more it multiplied.

One voice became five. Then ten. And twenty. Thirty. Each possessed a different timbre, pitch, and savor when it came time to brow-beat me for a decision. Until I faced a veritable firing squad of judgment. One to criticize my appearance. Another to find fault with my logic. A third to ridicule my (lack of) fashion sense. And more to chime in with niggling doubts and questions, lest I start to feel confident in my decisions.

They were and weren’t reflections of me. Funhouse mirrors that resembled my face at first glance but broke into laughter when I looked from the corner of my eye.

I gazed at their shadowed expressions and longed for the comforting distractions of my imaginary friends—and enemies; I’d have settled for enemies—of the past.

What do you do when you’re stressed out?

The worse the strain on my fragile ego (broken down and fragmented by too much exposure to ME), the stronger depression’s influence enjoyed. It sought out the cracks and crevices in my defenses, further weakening whatever offensive I might dream to mount.

I was a child armed with a twig taking on a slathering hydra.

Stress fed the shadows in my mind, providing a strange nourishment for the whispers and questions of, “Are you sure?” The heavier the weight on my shoulders, the further my head bowed—literally and figuratively. I found a metaphorical boot pressing harder and harder on my temple.

With no reserve strength to resist.

The refuge of my brain was condemned. “Enter at your own risk.” And, so desperate to find those lingering pockets of light, I pushed open the gates and ventured within.

Somehow hoping to defeat the monster I’d welcomed, nurtured, cared for all those years ago.