Exhuming the Buried

So, I haven’t written in a while (obviously), mainly due to the fact that my life has been extremely hectic these past few weeks.  I’ve finally been able to admit to myself that I’ve been severely depressed the past two years (at least) and I’m finally getting help.  I’m also getting help for the social anxiety disorder I believe I have.  Even on this blog, I refuse to give specific details about myself because I’m afraid that others will see this and nit-pick at it and try to tear me down after reading this.  My own friends and family don’t even know I have this blog and I don’t think I’ll tell them for a while, if at all.  Only now am I realizing how deep into my psyche is my depression and anxiety rooted.  It boggles me that I was able to deny all of this for so long, to bury everything that’s happened to me.  Somehow, I was even able to bury the memories of my father’s abuse so deep that I haven’t thought about it for at least four years.  Not even one thought, or a shadow of a memory, which I think is pretty amazing, since it had such a massive effect on my relationship with my father.  I suppose, though, that it was just a matter of time before all of this stuff exploded on me.  In the matter of a two-week period, I crumbled into a weathered mess; I had cried so much I didn’t even have any tears left.  I felt like a walking zombie, avoiding every thought of my depression or the memories that got me here.  It’s a bit different than the last two years, though, because now that I know the memories exist, I know what I am avoiding, and it is impossible to pretend to be happy as I have the past two years.  In retrospect, it was easier to pretend to be happy for others than it is now.  I had built a wall so large that I couldn’t even see it anymore, which enabled me to paint the outside, attempting to hide all of the disease festering within.  I can even recall having nightmares about these repressed memories this summer.  My subconscious had labeled it a seething, black mass, which invoked fear on an instinctual level.  I thought at the time that it was something I ate, or read, but now it makes me think that it was the first little stones crumbling from that wall I built.  Eventually, it all crumbled down, and I found myself surrounded by nothing but boulders and dust and the awful memories I had buried for years.  For the first time in a long time, taking a whole bottle of pills didn’t seem like such a bad idea anymore.  Every day now is a struggle, but I feel like I have the upper hand in my battle against depression.  It will be a lifelong struggle, for sure.  But I feel like I can find the strength to keep going, to create the happiness I’ve ached to have for so long.  In a way I’m grateful that the facade I created had crumbled, because it’s better to be in the position I’m in right now and taking steps forward, than burying everything I needed to deal with and pretending to be happy.  I would rather be face to face with my fears than turning my back on them and pretending they aren’t there.  Maybe one of these days I’ll actually post about what happened to me, but I know that topic might need to be split up into separate posts…there’s been a lot.

I hate to leave the post like this, but I’ll attempt to write more in the next couple of days.  I’ll try to come up with a happier topic in the meantime.

Advertisement