The truth about high functioning depression

The truth about high functioning depression

I’m at university. I live away from home. I can cook for myself and wash myself and do most ‘normal’ things. I’m not actively trying to kill myself. So, I guess you could come to the conclusion that at the moment, I have high functioning depression. I am depressed, but I am coping.

The reality is that for me, giving up is the easy part. It’s easy for me to give up, to let go. To take depression and suicidal ideation and everything else by the hand as my old friend. To listen to and feed those thoughts the forefront of my mind, rather than pushing it aside as the nagging little voice at the back of my mind. Because once I drop to a certain point, everything else comes naturally. It is a slippery slope.

Giving in is easy. It’s fighting every single day to hold onto the little life that I have worked so hard for that’s the hard part. Recovery is a greater battle than any relapse I have ever had. It’s exhausting and it’s relentless and it feels like it could slip through my fingers at any second.

I am tired every single hour of the day. Even when I’m happy, even when I’m out with friends, it’s always there. It never goes away. Overthinking one harsh word from someone or taking one tiny little thing as a sign, and I begin to think well, what is the point?

I know in many senses, I’m a lot better than I have been in previous years. But just because I look fine and act fine and even tell other people that I’m fine, doesn’t mean that I actually am fine. Because behind closed doors I’m still thinking about how I could make my death look like an accident so my family wouldn’t hate me for giving in.

I’m giving it all I’ve got, but sometimes I just need to acknowledge the fact that it’s not normal to feel the way that I do, and just because I am coping in some ways doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve to cut myself some lack and realise that I have an illness.