Depression: One of its many forms

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this essay intentionally for my English Language course work in year 11 under the title "stranded". It got 16/20 (A grade) so I thought it may be good to share on a community.

This is all part of my experience of depression at its peek (or dip, if you like). My aim really is to either educate those whom are lucky enough to have never dealt with such a thing, or to relate and offer a friendly understanding voice to those who are, or have.

Submitted: March 24, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 24, 2015




Disclaimer - Before we get into anything I just want to get something out there. I got better, I was eventually sent to a councillor who helped me immensely and I’ve never looked back until now. Enjoy.


No one can imagine what it’s like to have depression, if they haven’t been through it themselves. The emptiness you feel every moment of your waking life; the thick dark clouds that infect your mind; the agony one has to endure while they lose contact with everyone who cares because you honestly believe they don’t.

I know this because I’ve lived this. I’ve spent many hours of my life in quite isolation from everyone else. I pushed everybody away. My family, friends, doctors… I refused to leave my sanatorium of misery and loneliness.  I saw no future for myself and no answers for my problems.

I’d come home from a long day of school, drag myself up the two flights of stairs in my house, ignore my mother as she called after me, and just retreat from her worried voice into my room. I’d slam the door and slip down it as I listened to her voice call after me, eventually giving up. Why I did this? I don’t know. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her, or anyone. It’s what this affliction does to you.

When my mother finally caught up to me I’d manage to convince her that I just “had a bad day” and I was fine. This would work and shed leave me alone. I don’t know why I did this. Realistically all I wanted to do was scream out to her and tell her to just push the truth out of me. I needed that push, but I never got it.

Look at this way. Imagine you’re under a glass floor looking up at everyone you know and love going about their lives in blissful ignorance without you. You’re banging and screaming at them to notice you but they can’t hear your cries, nor see your pain.

Countless hours I’d spend lying in bed with my music fading into the background of my mind while all the thoughts of dread and the storm makes its comeback. My barrier never held long. Music was one of the only ways I knew I could use to shield myself for a period. Nothing lasted long though.

Sometimes I would build up the energy to hoist myself from my cocoon of pillows and blankets and turn on my lamp. Its rays would penetrate the standing darkness of my world, sometimes the light would make me forget for a second. But, the darkness of the mind cannot be penetrated by physical light, it takes… more. Walking over to the mirror I had on my wall became a great journey for me, and at the end there wasn’t any reward for doing so.

I would stand facing what must’ve been me, my reflection. I didn’t recognise the person staring back at me from beyond the glass. His glassy blue eyes were full of a multitude of emotions; despair, loneliness, numbness... I no longer had the ability to recognise the fun, energetic and outspoken side of the person I was. His exterior looked calm, but on the inside beyond his eyes I could see a great storm raging.

That’s what it does to you.

I couldn’t look at this poor excuse of a person anymore. I collapsed to the floor as my legs gave out from underneath me. Shaking and disorientated I leaned against the frame of my bed. I pushed my knees to my chest, a single tear making its way down my cheek like a pearl rolling.

As beautiful it may sound, that tear was full of pain. It came with rawness like that of an open wound. This single tear was the first I had released since the numbness came, I lacked the ability to cry for weeks and no matter what I did I was unable to. It was seeing me. Seeing what has come of me, the shell I had grown, the death of the guy I once was. It was too much for my broken and fragile mind to deal with, and with that single tear, the storm from beyond my eyes began to leak. I began to sob; my tears escaped my un-blinking eyes and dripped off of my chin onto my lap.

I cannot remember much after that. Apart from my mother hearing the crash of my desk chair toppling over onto my floor after I released a short but inferno-like burst of rage. I must’ve drifted off at some point, sat on the floor of my prison.

You could say my description of my room being a “prison” is a bit dramatic but it is just how it felt. I had nowhere else to go and be alone, but at the same time I couldn’t leave. I wasn’t physically bared in but I lacked the mental ability, and the energy to leave. It was a prison that I had created myself, and one I could only bring down. But, alas I lacked the necessities to do just that.

At one point I tried to keep a diary to record my draught. It worked for a few days. I also tried talking to people, but I just felt that I was bragging and attention seeking, so I stopped. And back it was to square one.

This affliction, this, this cancer of my soul just didn’t seem to let up. It was making me live in the world of fog, devoid of colour and hope.

But, I’m lucky to say that I was able to find my voice. I managed to call out and break the glass floor in which I was trapped under and find the help I so desperately needed. But, my case was not as severe as many people out there, my age and older that aren’t able to reach out; that are not able to get help.

Hundreds to maybe thousands of people get dragged down completely by depression and ultimately end it. Depression is real, and more needs to be done. I hope reading my story helped you understand a little bit more what it’s like to go through, or suffer from depression in one of its many forms.

Thank you for your time, Alex. 

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