If I had to use one word to describe the February of 2017 it would be mental. Both the adjective and the noun. I felt awful. And I’ve been feeling awful for so long that if you asked me to describe happiness, the closest I could get would be a day where I’m not cripplingly unhappy. I went and saw doctors who confirmed what I already knew, that I was clinically depressed. “Oh really, I had no idea. It's not like I continually struggle to get out of bed or told you that I was constantly sad or anything.” They also told me I had social anxiety and again I had a fairly similar reaction.  Because when you can’t talk to anyone without sweating and getting a migraine, you’re pretty sure something is wrong. But it was still nice to know. At least I’m not completely insane. Emphasis on completely.

I saw a psychologist for a limited number of sessions whilst also seeing a psychiatrist every six-ish weeks, but of course the most exciting part though was being put on pills because now not only was I mentally unwell, I was also medicated. I’m two for two! They came with some fun side effects such as dizziness, nausea, blah, blah, blah and some stuff that could kill you, but of course there is always a price to pay for happiness, right?

In any case, before I realized I needed help and before I went off the deep end, all I did was complain to my brother about my mental health.

“You know what I mean?”

“Sure…?”

That was his usual response when I explained to him the horrible inner workings of my mind.

“Do you want to maybe get help?” he asked.

“Of course not.”

This went on for some time until, as previously stated, February. The end of February to be more specific when I started seeing that psychologist, stopping after an anxiety attack, and getting on Prozac. But flash forward about a day.

“Kevin I’m going crazy”

“You’re not crazy.”

“Yes I am, and I can’t go to therapy anymore, she keeps telling me to do things.”

“What things?”

“Like going outside and actually talking to people, you know I can’t do that, and she shouldknowthat,ImeansheismytherapistafterallandIhaveexplainedtohermultipletimesnotonlythementalpainbutthephysicalpainthatcomeswithmyanxiety,nottomentionmydepression.” Sigh

“That sucks.”

“Yeah… it does.”

“So I was watching this anime, and -”

“KEVIN THIS IS NOT THE TIME” I left his room after that walked into mine, sat on the bed, got up walked to the kitchen and walked back to my room. I get incredibly fidgety when I’m… well… feeling almost any emotion. Besides the ones that just make me want to sleep. But of course on the way back to my room I walked into the wall.

“Ah shit! Mhnmn!.”

“You ok?”

“Of course I’m not ok! We’ve established this!”

I then got in bed and went to sleep. I told you I sleep when I experience emotion. And occasionally pain.

Those kind of conversations continued for quite some time, not just with my brother either, almost anyone I was willing to talk to.

Otherwise, I would write vague journal entries about how sad I was.

Until, of course my aforementioned anxiety attack, where I thereby moved forward, only on bitter pills that tasted the way sawdust smells. And they call these happy pills?! Nothing is happy about sawdust! They didn’t even do anything either besides make me hate myself slightly less and put another thing on my list of worries. And trust me when I say, that it is a long, long list. Alphabetically sorted of course.

To date, I have met my psychiatrist five times ever, we won’t name names for privacy sake, but I will tell you something he says to me or at least implies at almost every session I have had. It is that I’m “tricky”. That is the word he uses and I shall use it as well. The reason he says I’m tricky is because I apparently look ok on the outside, but from what I tell him I am in no way ok on the inside. Which is correct. I am not ok on the inside. And I sincerely wish people would stop saying that I “look fine”. Thus lies the reason why no one asked me about my emotions until I made undeniably clear that  I was unhappy by complaining about it a lot.

Of course there was that one time in sixth grade where I went to a single therapy session with someone who told me to solve all my problems with breathing, and then I never went back, but we don’t talk about that here.

When I’m there my psychiatrist will sometimes give me a survey to fill out about my emotions, which is exactly as horrible as it sounds, but it is at least slightly effective. You have to check off one box per question that says “All the time” “Most days” “Sometimes” or “never”, and you need to use these responses to answer questions like “How often are you sad”, “How often does your emotional state impede on your everyday life”, etc. And some darker questions to go along with that. When I give him back the survey it always says what we all know by now, that I’m very depressed. The results of it are even sometimes worse than the last time I filled them out, which I laugh at but he never does. He doesn’t give me these surveys anymore and this is usually the part of the appointment where he calls me tricky because I’ve been “smiling and seeming happy” since I came in. But again, I am not.

But going back to me being tricky, I find this a bit ironic considering when I brought the fact up that I have depression to my very good friend who used to see me almost everyday she basically responded with;

“Well no shit, I could have told you that for free.”

So now I’m depressed, which was mentioned, socially anxious, also addressed, and fairly dissociated, but it doesn’t end there, because nothing ever does.

The months went on with more things put on my list of worries and less things taken off, I don’t know how anything will go from here. Tomorrow they could come up with some magic pill to cure my depression (which I highly doubt, although it would be nice) or next time I see my psychiatrist he could diagnose me with a whole new mental illness (which is much more likely).

It would be very easy for me to say something cliche, like that tomorrow will always be better and you shouldn’t stop believing, but saying those things make me feel physically ill on top of everything else, so I won’t. But I will say that I am obviously grateful for all the good things I do have, I have a loving family, I live in a nice neighborhood, and I have my own fair share of white privilege, well sort of, about half give or take,but nevertheless, I don’t feel sorry for myself and I’m not unhappy with all the things I have, I am unhappy because there is literally something wrong with my brain, there’s a difference you know. But, hey, at least it can make for an interesting story.