Hi. I’m Danni and I have Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I’m presently untreated, and unmedicated.
I’m pretty high-functioning, though, so most people don’t realize how hard I’m working to keep my eyes open because my depressed brain wants to sleep for 14 hours a day and my anxiety maybe lets me get 5. Or that I’m keeping my limbs tucked in tight partly to be polite and take up less space because I’m paranoid about my size, but mostly because even on a rush hour train I’m afraid an accidental touch from a stranger is going to trigger a bout with the screaming meemees.
I present as perfectly calm, put together, and slightly detached, even aloof sometimes.
Meanwhile the inside of my head looks a bit more like this with a soundtrack of Dani Filth-like shrieks overlaid:
Last year was my absolute worst since my initial diagnosis. I was excessed from a job that said “I’m looking for someone to retire with” when I was hired 4 years prior, and I didn’t leave my apartment for a month. My housemate, who was already making wellness checks on me when he realized he once went 3 full weeks without seeing me or even realizing I was home in my apartment, stepped them up to every few days.
I lived on whatever random food was in the apartment and occasionally takeaway. I maybe showered once a week, or if I was going to see my parents. I didn’t brush my hair or my teeth unless my housemate came by. I took out the trash and recycling and checked the mail only when no one upstairs was home. I forgot how to do dishes, and only bothered to scrape the mold off the silverware and dishes and wash it all when I ran out of disposables leftover from the takeaway meals.
Then I had to move out of my apartment, which I put off til the last minute because I couldn’t function well enough to actually, I don’t know, PACK LIKE A NORMAL PERSON.
Storage looks the way it does because other than a few trips to my new place (one with my most favorite Biker and his truck), my entire move consisted of cramming my apartment into plastic bags, chucking the bags into storage, and and not dealing with it until the end of summer, when I finally started looking for all the little things I needed.
Like work clothes and my car title.
I did, however, scrub the apartment from floor to ceiling once it was empty – I’m a mess, not a savage.
The rest of the year is kind of a blur. I had an epic road trip around my 40th birthday with someone I loved as much as I was able to in my mental state, which was apparently not enough. I celebrated nephew birthdays. I Ren Faire’d and rediscovered my love of cheeky Scotsmen in kilts. I worked. I found my sisters and I found my Housemates. I saw Bear and my New England people more last year than I had in the 5 years prior. Hell, the 15 years prior. There were holidays in there somewhere too.
I’d also get in on a Friday night and not emerge til Monday morning when I had to go to work. I’d ignore texts and calls from people I wanted to talk to and cared about because I just couldn’t pick up the phone.I’d break promises and cancel plans because the idea of leaving the house made my lungs seize and my hands shake.
When people would ask me how I was doing, I’d lie and tell them I was good because I didn’t want to see the pity or get unsolicited advice on how to snap out of it or the flash of contempt because seriously, she has everything she needs what the hell does she have to be DEPRESSED about?
I’m not good. I don’t remember the last time “I’m good” was the accurate answer.
I’m Danni. I have Depression and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I’m presently untreated, and unmedicated.
I’m crying as I type this.
I’m not ok.
But I’m working on it. And I will be.