I’ve been away from my computer for awhile. It’s been months since I’ve even opened a journal. I wish that I could report that I haven’t had any battles with depression — that it’s the constant demands of selling a house has kept me from writing — but I would be lying if I did. It’s exhausting, the constant tiredness… the guilt that comes with it. No matter how many times I tell myself that it’s not my fault, depression’s little demon sits on my shoulder and whispers in my ear that it is in fact me. In my last session with my psychiatrist, I complained of my frustration with the seemingly constant cheerlessness. Dr. C reiterated to me that there is no cure for the depression, it will always be there. The meds only make it more manageable. Not something that I did not already know, but still not what I wanted to hear.
There’s a culpability that comes with always feeling drained. I miss out on a lot. I don’t have the energy that I feel I need to devote to my family. I blank out in the middle of conversations and I constantly come up with excuses not to be more involved. Saying “I’m tired” all of the time becomes embarrassing and having to admit that there is no “reason” for me to be tired becomes agonizing. People who don’t suffer with depression will never fully understand that the illness itself is what makes the casualty of the disorder so weary all the time. It’s not only mental; it’s physical too. Explaining it to them is useless — they just can’t relate. How can an unseen illness make someone tired? How can it cause physical pain?
I try to keep a positive outlook on life. Sometimes I don’t succeed. Bipolar Disorder is a bitch. No matter how good my life is, there’s always the shadow of an illness — an invisible illness — looming over me. It will always be that way. So, I will continue to battle; and I will continue to experience the exhaustion left behind after the fight. The fact is that, if I’m able to complain about the tiredness, I’ve won the battle. In the end, that’s all that really matters.