In May 2019, I was diagnosed with severe depression and moderate anxiety. Since then, I have embarked on the road to fighting depression.
Everything in the past is the cause of the onset
In my memory, I have always been a person with low self-esteem since I was a child. My low self-esteem is not caused by a specific event, but the result of countless small things accumulating over more than twenty years. Perhaps my sensitive and fragile nature easily leaves marks.
My original family was very ordinary, although to outsiders it may even be called happy and perfect because I had loving parents and a sister who were supporting me through the depression period.
But in my childhood memories, I can’t quite recall the warmth of being loved, but rather remember when they argued loudly, I would cower in the corner of the bed trembling slightly; I remember when my dad, in a fit of anger, raised a kitchen knife, and I stood frozen in place, tears streaming down; I remember learning to hide my emotions to avoid being blamed; I remember the shame and self-denial after being humiliated in public by a teacher… All these things have been buried deep in my heart, waiting for a trigger, waiting to take over parts of my daily life.
(Image source: unsplash)
Due to my sensitive and pessimistic nature, my character can’t be considered pleasing, so it’s not difficult to imagine that I don’t have many friends. Perhaps because I deeply yearn for love, I unconsciously sought as much care and love from those around me, which eventually drove away almost everyone, including long-time friends, boyfriends, classmates, and others.
At that time, my state was such that one moment I would be chatting and laughing, then the next moment, my face would change, lowering in sadness; one moment I would be happily enjoying food, then the next moment I would set down my utensils unable to eat anymore; perhaps one afternoon, I would be commenting on the goodness of being alive, but back home at night, I would find myself craving death even more; sometimes, one day I would motivate myself, but the next day, just surviving would deplete all my energy.
First time seeking help, first time breaking down, first time…
Actually, back in high school, I had proactively sought help from a psychologist, and the psychologist had told me, “You have been spoiled by your parents,” and that was the end of it.
For the next several years, that sentence echoed in my mind constantly, reminding me that it was all because I had been spoiled by my parents, that it was all because I was too incompetent and fragile, so all this pain was my fault. Finally, in my senior year of college during the internship, all these accumulated burdens exploded completely.
The spring and summer of 2019 marked the beginning of my senior year internship. At that time, I was working as a teacher at an English early education institution, with classes mainly in the late afternoon and evening, so during the day, apart from lesson planning, my workload was not that heavy. After a few months, every day, I would hide in the toilet stall or an empty classroom to cry, with no specific reason, just needing to detach from work and release. But soon enough, crying was no longer enough to alleviate my mental pain. And so, I started self-harming. At first, it was using a blunt eyebrow razor, then I moved on to using a fruit knife. The feeling of cutting through the flesh, watching the blood flow from my wrist, temporarily masking the mental pain with physical pain, gave me a sense of “relief”.
It was this extreme behavior and cycle of emotional fluctuations that gradually drove away many people who had been around me. And as they left, it triggered even more emotional instability, escalating as if falling into a vicious cycle.
I remember a deeply profound emotional breakdown. Tears and blood mixed, dripping onto the floor. I gazed at the cuts on my wrist and saw the veins in the raised wounds. I thought, just a bit more, the veins were so thin, I could easily puncture them. If I did, I would be free.
But deep down, I also knew that cutting my wrist would not do much, and if my parents found out, I would surely get scolded. But what should I do? Self-harm seemed to have an addictive quality; once started, a person would increasingly become obsessed with this brief release of pain. Though fearful of this “addiction”, I felt powerless, sinking deeper. Even though I have not self-harmed for a long time now, that “addiction” still lingers in my mind, a forbidden fruit hanging over me, tempting me to commit a crime.
The world is beautiful, but the me under depression can’t feel it
By the end of that year, I finally chose to resign and summoned a minuscule amount of courage to confess to my family about my depression. Surprisingly, my family didn’t blame me; instead, they were willing to let me resign and recuperate at home. I consider myself fortunate; it’s a cliché, but after losing so much, I discovered that I still had my family supporting me. Ironically, equally unwavering was my depression.
Perhaps due to the effect of medication, after more than half a year, my emotional fluctuations lessened, and I no longer cried daily like before. I thought that things should be getting better, right? But clearly, I had underestimated the endurance of depression. Numbness, emotional emptiness – in a way, these were more tormenting than grief.
My life lacked great sorrow, but also lacked great joy. My emotions were like a flatline after a stopped heartbeat – no fluctuation, no vitality. There was nothing in life that truly brought me joy from within, nothing to look forward to, and of course, nothing to worry about or regret.
During this period, there was always a dreamy feeling, questioning whether I was living or simply surviving. Occasionally, when I awoke, I realized that I no longer remembered what it felt like before being sick. “Living” had become an option, just like “being born,” beyond my choice. Sometimes I felt as though I wasn’t living but merely surviving, like other animals, getting by on instinct, without questioning, without pursuing, simply existing because I exist.
When a person loses the enthusiasm and expectations for life, how do they keep going? Every conscious moment is spent “struggling” to live, and any lapse could unconsciously lead to surrendering. Depression is not just unhappiness; it is a constant, endless mental torment. Of course, you could endure it with strong willpower, but I admit, I do not possess that iron will, I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore.
By the end of 2020, I started seeking help through psychological counseling. The counselor told me, “Allow yourself to be unhappy.” To accept and coexist with depression, try to live alongside it.
Frankly, do I think there will come a day when I completely overcome it? I don’t think so, it might even accompany me for a large part of my life. Instead of using up my remaining strength to win this battle, it’s better to try to coexist with it.
Today, even though I still constantly debate with my inner depression and still seek relief, I continue to take medication and attend counseling once a week. Even though I am still unemployed at home and may stubbornly insist that I’m garbage, I no longer hold onto the belief that I must defeat depression. Instead, I believe it is part of my growth, and I’m learning how to handle my emotions, how to interact with others, and most importantly, how to love myself.
I believe many people have had similar experiences: when I wanted to end my life, it wasn’t because I truly longed for death, but I didn’t want to repeat the painful daily life anymore. As insignificant human beings, we don’t have to assign grand meaning to our lives. The highlights and darkness in life are precisely what defines the best meaning of being alive at the moment.
Even if one day I’m no longer here, at the end, I will be able to sigh and say, “At least I lived.” I used to love the beauty of the world, but I almost forgot how much I enjoyed discovering the little bright spots in everyday life, like stars in the night sky adorning the mundane life. Even though I can’t feel that excitement now, I know that the world hasn’t changed; beautiful things remain beautiful, it’s just that we are sick, temporarily losing the ability to feel them.
“Even though I want to die, I also want to keep living. Please don’t give up on me no matter how recklessly I harm myself.” This was a plea I sent to a friend during one of my episodes while still holding onto a thread of clarity and rationality.
“Everything will eventually get better.” These are words carved in my heart. To whoever is reading this, please don’t give up on yourself too.
