Depression is a chronic illness, an illness I live with. I have said this many times.
If only saying things was the same as accepting things.
If only the idea of acceptance was the same as actual acceptance.
I accepted the idea that I would have several bouts of depression over my lifetime, I did not, however, accept the actual “real thing” – that I would not have control over when these bouts came, how often, how severe, how long.
Yes, I can do my part to make these bouts easier, but I am trying to accept that it is just that, a part of what can be done. I don’t get to determine what treatment will work and what won’t, and that stink, but I am trying to accept that.
So what can I do? I can find a way to make dealing with the effects and frustrations of this disease easier. My path? Doing my part to end stigma, build empathy, and laugh at it.
I write about it, I share those writings. I talk about getting electric-convulsive therapy and how it saved my life. Because you know what happens when you talk?
It gives others the permission to share, to not hide. And now my writing has been turned into a play that will premiere this February.
It’s a comedy about battling suicidal depression. Cause why not!