Posts tagged "depression"

therhumboogie:

By Christian Hopkins, this very talented young photographer uses his photography as a true artistic outlet to help with his depression. The whole set of images are just stunning and really draw you in, a perfect example of how art can help a person having a difficult time to express themselves. 

(via drake-mallard)

Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comport yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation. If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life.
It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too. No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged.
(via captain-spaulding1000)

(via gloomjune)

“Lack of motivation” is a generally misunderstood symptom of depression. It does not mean that I sit around thinking, “Oh, I’m so depressed; why bother to do shit I don’t want to do anyway.” It means not that I lack discipline, but that there is a mental disconnect between my conscious mind, which says I want or need to do X, and the part of my brain which actually initiates activity. It prevents me from doing things I would very much like to do, as well as things I need to do, rather than indicating simply a lack of interest in doing things which are not immediately rewarding.

If you want or need to go somewhere, whether somewhere you’re eagerly looking forward to going, or somewhere routine, or to the dentist for a root canal which you may be much averse to but have nevertheless decided will leave you better off in the long run, and you get in your car, turn the key in the ignition repeatedly, yet the engine sputters but does not engage, this is not an indication that you don’t really want to go anywhere. It’s an indication that something is wrong with the equipment you need to transport you there.

I am fully capable of sitting for hours, thinking periodically, “I need to pee,” then, “I really need to pee,” and eventually, “Damn, I need to pee,” before being able to jump start the part of my brain which engages with the task of getting up and walking the ten feet to the bathroom, and initiates the movement which allows me to do that.

The more complex the task, the harder it can be, because a more complex sequence of actions must be, in some sense, imagined and targeted before the actions necessary to bring them about can be initiated. Most people are unaware that this process even takes place, because in a healthy brain, it occurs swiftly and automatically. In my brain, it does not.

Maud, There’s Good News and Bad News.  

THIS. THIS THIS THIS THIS.


Yes.

(via shakethecobwebs, kiriamaya)

this. this. this. a thousand times this.

(via ethiopienne) (via anedumacation) (via strugglingtobeheard)

(via so-treu) (via polerin)

(via someotherchick)

(via crowleyshouseplant)

(via dingoatemybabycrazy)

(via southernfeminism)

(via brazenbitch)

(via thefistofartemis)

(via curryjolokia)

(via butyoumight)

(via quarians)

volefleshe:

consolecadet:

supersandys-space:

onemanbombsquad:

carrnage:

sistercrow:
{previous comments snipped}
TW: Description of depression and suicide
So, one day you are walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly you trip and fall into this enormously deep pit sitting right in the middle of the path.  No clue how it got there or how you failed to notice it until you had fallen in.  You struggle and try to get out of the pit but the wall are too steep and crumbly and the ground under you is wet and muddy and you make no progress at all to get out.
So there you are.  Sitting at the bottom of a dark pit, miserable, with no foreseeable way out.  And then you hear a voice from above.
“Hey there stranger, you seem to have fallen into a pit, eh?”
“Help!  Help I’m stuck and can’t get out!  Please help!”
“Listen, what you need to do now is buck up and see the good things in life.  The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the flowers are blooming, everything is just grand.  Smile!”
And off they go, leaving you in the pit to contemplate how muddy the mud is and how little sunlight actually reaches you, and when you can faintly hear birds signing it is only a reminder of how far down and stuck you are.  Then another voice.
“My good friend, how nice to see you down there!”
“Help!  For the love of god I am stuck!  Help!”
“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go hang at the mall today.  We could catch a movie or something.”
“I’m stuck down here!  I need help!  Get a rope or something, please!”
“Dude, come on.  Don’t be so down all the time.  If you don’t want to come you could just tell me instead of making excuses.  Way to not care about my feelings.”
And off they go.  Shit.  Now you are in a hole and you hurt your friend’s feelings and you kinda did want to go to the mall.  And the mud is really cold.  Your feet are starting to sink in and you start spending a lot of energy just to keep from sinking in so far they you can’t move anymore.  It is exhausting.  But then a voice that you know so well.
“Hey love!  How are you today?  I bought your favorite food for supper tonight ”
“Oh thank god!  Help please!  I fell down here and can’t get out and I am sinking into the mud and I’m so scared that I might sink too far in and never be able to get out!”
“You know, you don’t have to get upset with me.”
“I’m not!  I just need help.  I love you.”
“Well you certainly have a funny way of showing, moping about down there in that hole.  If you really loved me maybe you would climb out so we can go home.”
“I’ve tried!  Really I have.  The walls are too steep.  I can’t do it.  I need a ladder or something.  Call the fire department!”
“Ugh.  You aren’t the only one with problems, you know.  Just earlier today I stumble in a small dip in the sidewalk and stepped in a shallow puddle but you don’t see me using it as an excuse to be all self centered.  You know what, fine.  I’ll just go home and eat by myself.  I hope you enjoy your little pity party down there.”
And off they go.
You are desperate and alone even though you can hear and even occasionally see people walking past the opening of the hole.  You call out over and over but nobody seems to care or notice.  And those that do give you trite little nothings.
“You should have waited till you were older to fall into a hole.  Why didn’t you think before you fell in?”
“Kids these days, leaping into holes without any consideration for the rest of us.  Grow up already.”
“You know, if I was in a hole, I would have a grand time of it.  No rules or concerns to hold me back.  I would make mud pies all day long.  You are in such a great position.”
“Cheer up!  If you smiled more and had some fun you would be out of that hole in no time!”
“Stop crying so much.  You’re making the rest of us feel bad.”
At some point somebody hears you and actually listens as you cry for help.  They run off and return later with a large crowd of strangers who stand around the rim of your hole shouting down more pointless little nothings and encouraging you.  More than a few say things like “think about your family! Being stuck in a hole is so selfish when there are so many people who love you!”
And eventually they all clear out and you are still in the hole and the sun is setting and it genuinely feel likes there is no hope at all.
The end.  No, this story doesn’t have a happy ending.  It doesn’t have a cheerful humorous joke to sum up the moral.  You sit in the hole until you get tired of trying.  You stop calling for help.  You let yourself sink into the mud up to your knees and waist and chest.  Your friends stop coming by.  Your partner leaves you because it is too much trouble putting up with you.  Your family stops by to admonish you for being down there and embarrassing them so much.  And someday you do the only thing that would end your existence in the hole and pile the mud up over your face and suffocate, because as scary and awful as death is, it seems to be a better option than living the rest of your life miserable and cold and in pain stuck at the bottom of a hole unable to enjoy anything or feel anything.  And that is the end of my little story.

Reblogging for sistercrow’s comment ^

This ^ comment up there is the most accurate metaphor for depression I’ve ever read.
You don’t just get over it :\ if you could just get over it you wouldn’t be depressed.
sad =/= depressed.

Thank you SO much, sistercrow. I’m making your “story” my Facebook status, because I really needed to be reminded that being depressed is not my choice, and I think my family/friends can benefit from a refresher course in why I am the way I am.Relatives/friends, if you’re reading this: It’s not that I don’t want to see you, or talk to you on the phone, or email/text back and forth…it’s that I have no energy or motivation to do those things. I beat myself up for it, so very much. I HATE that I don’t care enough to clean house or buy groceries or put pants on and check the mail, let alone spend time with the people I love. I HATE that I can’t be bothered to read my Tumblr Dash or play my favorite video game or work on my book or paint my nails or kiss my husband for minutes on end. The things I love just…don’t inspire me. I simply don’t care. I just don’t. I want to, desperately, but I don’t know how to make myself. I try, Heaven help me I try. I force myself out of bed every day to walk the dogs, some days I paint my face and fix my hair and pick out a cute outfit. Some days I spend 6 hours cleaning the yard (after months of neglect,) some days I wash the week’s worth of dirty dishes in the sink. Some days I even shower. But most days? Most days I lay in bed for 12 hours. Most days I wouldn’t get up at all if I didn’t feel so responsible for making sure Jordan eats dinner. Most days the only sunlight I see is through the cracks in the bedroom curtains. Most days, I am depressed. But please, reach out to me anyway. Please. I won’t come to you, because that’s what depression + social anxiety does, I need you to come to me. I need you to drag me to lunch, to dinner, to the park, to any room in my house but the one with the bed. I need you to show me that you love me even though I’m “broken.” Mostly because I won’t be “fixed” any time soon. They don’t make housewife insurance so I can’t get the health care I know I need to really manage my illness. So please, help me help myself. You can’t get me out of the pit, but you can absolutely shine some light into it.

Read that top comment if you have the time. I’m really, really sick of being told I should just get over it.

Not that I expect anyone to read this, but it is so true that I had to post it. I too need to remind myself that this is not my fault, and I am not a bad or lesser person for it. I am just sick.

That metaphor is the most accurate thing I’ve ever read.

volefleshe:

consolecadet:

supersandys-space:

onemanbombsquad:

carrnage:

sistercrow:

{previous comments snipped}

TW: Description of depression and suicide

So, one day you are walking along, minding your own business, when suddenly you trip and fall into this enormously deep pit sitting right in the middle of the path.  No clue how it got there or how you failed to notice it until you had fallen in.  You struggle and try to get out of the pit but the wall are too steep and crumbly and the ground under you is wet and muddy and you make no progress at all to get out.

So there you are.  Sitting at the bottom of a dark pit, miserable, with no foreseeable way out.  And then you hear a voice from above.

“Hey there stranger, you seem to have fallen into a pit, eh?”

“Help!  Help I’m stuck and can’t get out!  Please help!”

“Listen, what you need to do now is buck up and see the good things in life.  The sun is shining, the birds are singing, the flowers are blooming, everything is just grand.  Smile!”

And off they go, leaving you in the pit to contemplate how muddy the mud is and how little sunlight actually reaches you, and when you can faintly hear birds signing it is only a reminder of how far down and stuck you are.  Then another voice.

“My good friend, how nice to see you down there!”

“Help!  For the love of god I am stuck!  Help!”

“Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go hang at the mall today.  We could catch a movie or something.”

“I’m stuck down here!  I need help!  Get a rope or something, please!”

“Dude, come on.  Don’t be so down all the time.  If you don’t want to come you could just tell me instead of making excuses.  Way to not care about my feelings.”

And off they go.  Shit.  Now you are in a hole and you hurt your friend’s feelings and you kinda did want to go to the mall.  And the mud is really cold.  Your feet are starting to sink in and you start spending a lot of energy just to keep from sinking in so far they you can’t move anymore.  It is exhausting.  But then a voice that you know so well.

“Hey love!  How are you today?  I bought your favorite food for supper tonight ”

“Oh thank god!  Help please!  I fell down here and can’t get out and I am sinking into the mud and I’m so scared that I might sink too far in and never be able to get out!”

“You know, you don’t have to get upset with me.”

“I’m not!  I just need help.  I love you.”

“Well you certainly have a funny way of showing, moping about down there in that hole.  If you really loved me maybe you would climb out so we can go home.”

“I’ve tried!  Really I have.  The walls are too steep.  I can’t do it.  I need a ladder or something.  Call the fire department!”

“Ugh.  You aren’t the only one with problems, you know.  Just earlier today I stumble in a small dip in the sidewalk and stepped in a shallow puddle but you don’t see me using it as an excuse to be all self centered.  You know what, fine.  I’ll just go home and eat by myself.  I hope you enjoy your little pity party down there.”

And off they go.

You are desperate and alone even though you can hear and even occasionally see people walking past the opening of the hole.  You call out over and over but nobody seems to care or notice.  And those that do give you trite little nothings.

“You should have waited till you were older to fall into a hole.  Why didn’t you think before you fell in?”

“Kids these days, leaping into holes without any consideration for the rest of us.  Grow up already.”

“You know, if I was in a hole, I would have a grand time of it.  No rules or concerns to hold me back.  I would make mud pies all day long.  You are in such a great position.”

“Cheer up!  If you smiled more and had some fun you would be out of that hole in no time!”

“Stop crying so much.  You’re making the rest of us feel bad.”

At some point somebody hears you and actually listens as you cry for help.  They run off and return later with a large crowd of strangers who stand around the rim of your hole shouting down more pointless little nothings and encouraging you.  More than a few say things like “think about your family! Being stuck in a hole is so selfish when there are so many people who love you!”

And eventually they all clear out and you are still in the hole and the sun is setting and it genuinely feel likes there is no hope at all.

The end.  No, this story doesn’t have a happy ending.  It doesn’t have a cheerful humorous joke to sum up the moral.  You sit in the hole until you get tired of trying.  You stop calling for help.  You let yourself sink into the mud up to your knees and waist and chest.  Your friends stop coming by.  Your partner leaves you because it is too much trouble putting up with you.  Your family stops by to admonish you for being down there and embarrassing them so much.  And someday you do the only thing that would end your existence in the hole and pile the mud up over your face and suffocate, because as scary and awful as death is, it seems to be a better option than living the rest of your life miserable and cold and in pain stuck at the bottom of a hole unable to enjoy anything or feel anything.  And that is the end of my little story.

Reblogging for sistercrow’s comment ^

This ^ comment up there is the most accurate metaphor for depression I’ve ever read.

You don’t just get over it :\ if you could just get over it you wouldn’t be depressed.

sad =/= depressed.

Thank you SO much, sistercrow. I’m making your “story” my Facebook status, because I really needed to be reminded that being depressed is not my choice, and I think my family/friends can benefit from a refresher course in why I am the way I am.

Relatives/friends, if you’re reading this: It’s not that I don’t want to see you, or talk to you on the phone, or email/text back and forth…it’s that I have no energy or motivation to do those things. I beat myself up for it, so very much. I HATE that I don’t care enough to clean house or buy groceries or put pants on and check the mail, let alone spend time with the people I love. I HATE that I can’t be bothered to read my Tumblr Dash or play my favorite video game or work on my book or paint my nails or kiss my husband for minutes on end. The things I love just…don’t inspire me. I simply don’t care. I just don’t. I want to, desperately, but I don’t know how to make myself. I try, Heaven help me I try. I force myself out of bed every day to walk the dogs, some days I paint my face and fix my hair and pick out a cute outfit. Some days I spend 6 hours cleaning the yard (after months of neglect,) some days I wash the week’s worth of dirty dishes in the sink. Some days I even shower. But most days? Most days I lay in bed for 12 hours. Most days I wouldn’t get up at all if I didn’t feel so responsible for making sure Jordan eats dinner. Most days the only sunlight I see is through the cracks in the bedroom curtains. Most days, I am depressed. But please, reach out to me anyway. Please. I won’t come to you, because that’s what depression + social anxiety does, I need you to come to me. I need you to drag me to lunch, to dinner, to the park, to any room in my house but the one with the bed. I need you to show me that you love me even though I’m “broken.” Mostly because I won’t be “fixed” any time soon. They don’t make housewife insurance so I can’t get the health care I know I need to really manage my illness. So please, help me help myself. You can’t get me out of the pit, but you can absolutely shine some light into it.

Read that top comment if you have the time. I’m really, really sick of being told I should just get over it.

Not that I expect anyone to read this, but it is so true that I had to post it. I too need to remind myself that this is not my fault, and I am not a bad or lesser person for it. I am just sick.

That metaphor is the most accurate thing I’ve ever read.

(via gloomjune)

edoro:

Since I know this is relevant to a number of people following me right now, I’m going to repeat something I’ve said several times in the past.

If you are suffering from some kind of mental disorder, something that impairs your function, like anxiety or depression or dysophoria or anything like that, you’re not a bad person. 

You’re not a weak person. You’re not worthless, although I know you think you are. You are, in fact, so strong.

Think about it this way: You are suffering from something that makes your brain work against you. It makes you terrified of very simple things. It makes you terrified of basic interactions that society is built on. It makes you hate your body. It makes you hate your self. It makes you feel worthless and useless and unlovable. It makes you want to stop existing.

And every single day that you keep existing, you’re doing it in spite of yourself. You are actively working against your own mind in order to have even a semblance of a life.

That’s fucking hardcore. How many of you who are following me don’t suffer from depression or anxiety? Can you guys imagine doing that? Can you imagine having to literally fight with yourself every single day just to get out of bed and go out into the world?

What happens, what the disease in your brain makes you do, is that you compare yourself to people who aren’t suffering this way. You compare yourself at your very lowest to other people who are functioning normally or at their best. Because your brain is working against you and telling you you’re worthless, you compare yourself like you and those people who don’t have those problems are on the same level.

You’re not, though. They’re on a completely different level than you, and you have to fight and claw and grit your teeth and fucking drag yourself up to the basic level of function that they achieve without even thinking about it. You have to expend so much effort to do the things they do subconsciously.

So if your grades slip? If you have trouble socializing? If you have trouble getting up? If you sleep badly? If you eat too much? If you hurt yourself? If you cry over stupid bullshit? If you cry over nothing? If you feel empty and hollow and numb? If you get angry and sad too often? If you don’t ever want to do anything? If you DON’T do anything?

You’re not weak. You’re overwhelmed and struggling. You are, truly, your own worst enemy.

And it’s not your fault. And if anyone, including your own brain, tries to tell you it is, you tell them to shut the fuck up. A mental disorder is not a personal failing and it doesn’t make you worthless, broken, or useless. It makes you a person who has a problem and needs help, who deserves that help, because they deserve to be happy.

(via oyveyzqueer)

I'm Kris! Sometimes I draw! I like pizza, flailing over the most ridiculous of things (The Avengers, Jesse Eisenberg, Sherlock Holmes, etc), and pretty pictures.


ask me anything