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The Veil of Despair by Jamie Parker
Updated: Aug. 1, 2016
Originally Published: Aug. 8, 2014
As a writer, I strive to cover everything that crosses my mind. It’s practically my only skill. However, the irony of humor is that it can sometimes feel like a disguise, a way to mask my true self. I cherish laughter—both my own and that of others—but more often than not, I’m not the jovial person I portray.
Writing about depression is a daunting task, mainly because it feels as if doing so reveals a weakness. Who wants to hear about my struggles when they have their own? It’s hard enough to articulate the depths of my feelings.
Understanding deep depression is a challenge for those who have never experienced it. There are days when I can manage—often involving writing something I don’t despise or simply enjoying the outdoors. In those moments, I seem fine on the surface. Yet, there are also days—sometimes even the same day—when that darkness resurfaces like a relentless virus. I find myself reminding myself not to veer my car across the line or edge too close to a precipice.
These are the moments when reaching out should be a priority, but depression often convinces me that I shouldn’t feel this way—that it’s merely self-indulgent wallowing and not a legitimate illness like those visible to the outside world. So, I swallow my feelings and retreat further into isolation, fearing that sharing them would portray me as merely complaining. It’s challenging to convey that depression isn’t just sadness, and that OCD isn’t merely a desire for cleanliness; they are debilitating conditions.
Regrettably, both have taken a toll on me, impacting my mental and physical state. My focus is fleeting, often alternating between staring blankly at my screen and feeling ensnared by an overwhelming heaviness, inadequate compared to others. In a misguided attempt to cope, I dive into excessive exercise, searching for any semblance of emotion other than numbness.
The immediate effects become irrelevant, as nothing truly matters at that point. At least the distractions—my slow self-destruction fueled by OCD—offer a false sense of control, yet nothing is ever sufficient.
This is the nature of depression: it distorts reality. Simple tasks demand monumental effort, akin to running through quicksand. Work becomes tedious and unbearable. Joy turns into monotony, while sorrow escalates to anguish. Even past achievements and cherished hobbies lose their significance.
Depression embodies a stark absence of hope.
I share this not as a motivational speech with a neat resolution, because I lack both, but as a reminder that you are not alone. Stigmas surrounding mental health often lead us to believe we should suppress our struggles, as if everyone else has it all figured out while we’re failing somehow.
That’s simply not true. You are human, doing your best with the strength you possess. You choose to cling to hope and to fight—even when it feels impossible. I, too, make that choice every day. It’s all I know to do, and fortunately, we don’t have to face this journey alone. We can find moments of joy, or at least companionship with those who understand. Sometimes, that connection is all we need.
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Summary:
This article delves into the complex realities of living with depression, emphasizing the struggle to articulate feelings and the societal stigma surrounding mental health. It aims to remind readers that they are not alone and encourages connection and hope amid the darkness.
Keyphrase: Depression and Hope
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