I’ve written about you many times… I’ve cried about you, laughed about you, joked about how much of a clingy bastard you are and even tried to romanticise you.
But today I am writing you a letter of acceptance. Because you deserve acknowledgement for all the times you let me down, all the lessons you taught me and all the mess you made in my life.
You’ve stood on my chest and kept me down. Kept me from calling friends back on time or calling friends back at all. You’ve even made me lay in bed all day and not let the sun kiss my face.
You’ve made me fail university, made boyfriends leave and made the sly ones stay.
You’ve forced me to quit jobs, fall short of employers expectations and live a life of endless Centrelink reliance and poverty.
You’ve broken my heart and tormented me as I ripped myself to shreds trying to put it back together.
You’ve invaded my sleep and my dreams, you’ve left me sleepless, exhausted, speechless and numb.
I fucking hate you.
Well, I used too.
Now I understand that telling myself I fucking hate you is telling those dark parts of me that they are unworthy of love. That they don’t deserve attention and affection in order to heal and become better. But when they would enter my mind I felt nothing but despair and pure hatred.
They linger around like little demons laughing in my face as I try and try to move on with my life.
My goals, my dreams, my aspirations, my expectations all lay in ruin because I let you win, I let you rule and cowered away. Ashamed to speak and ashamed of my weakness.
But over time I’ve discovered I’m bigger than my demons, I’m bigger than my body and I’m more than a soul.
I am not my depression and my depression is not me.
I know you do not control me and I need to stop giving you so much power over situations in my life because some really cool shit has happened too.
I made good friends, friends who stayed.
I met a good man, a good man who stayed and loves me.
He loves me so much that he wants to marry me.
And I love him so much that I moved to Queensland with him.
I’m back at university, achieving ridiculously good marks that my younger self could never have done in the reality of her situation.
I’m not on Centrelink, I’m not in poverty (depression makes you exaggerate) and I’m earning money.
I’ve travelled. England, Scotland, France, Ireland, Spain, Italy, Indonesia, New Zealand.
Some really cool shit has happened.
I know you do not control me, but I accept that you are here.
I accept that sometimes you will come along for the ride on a busy day and you’ll scream at me like a raging two-year-old that I should stay in bed all day and cancel all my plans.
I know that sometimes you’ll tell me that I’m a piece of shit and LOL you’re 27 years old and can’t even keep your room clean. I know let’s have an anxiety attack too shall we? Party!
But you’ve taught me resilience and strength. There is something magically brave about hiking on while you’re nagging me to stop.
I am more sensitive, compassionate, and empathetic because of you.
I wouldn’t be who I am without you exploding like a ticking bomb into my life and lingering around for years to come like a thorn in my side.
You don’t talk as much anymore but sometimes your little thorn prick will come back into my side and I think “hello, you’re back, haven’t heard from you in a while.”
And you tell me all those comments that used to get me down and now I laugh at you.
I tell you, “well if you’re gonna stick around come on then we’re going outside to journal and garden. You can tell me all the nasty things and I’ll write them down until you’re out of breath and you leave.”
My invisible black dog, always at my side but not always present.
PS. Fuck you for all those times you told me to kill myself.
PPS. Thank you for teaching me the true meaning of bravery.