Once upon a time I believed that depression was a crime. A crime against my family, a crime against normalcy, a crime against society, a crime against myself. I refused to accept the fact that I was born with neurotransmitters that don’t transmit properly, like my DNA was something over which I had authority, and too little dopamine in my brain to be what I though I was supposed to be: happy. I refused to accept the fact that depression and anxiety are not me.
Running away from my emotions did not make them disappear. Running away only made the emptiness that once swallowed me a million times more difficult to bear.
So I stopped running.
I stopped running.
I take sertraline like diabetics take insulin because the beast that used to live inside of me no longer lives my life for me.
I am not depressed, I have depression. There is a difference.
You are not your mental illness.