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| my rock, my anchor, my superhero |
I suffer from depression.
It used to be one of those things that would hit hard occasionally two or three times a month. Its frequency is increasing, though.
Last week, it hit me twice; this week, so far, once.
Both times last week it was a hard, hard hit. To the point that I --seriously-- could have pulled the trigger on a gun and not thought twice about it.
Yesterday, the time that it hit this week, I didn't want to die so much as to fade away. I just didn't want to be here anymore. (It's almost like I wanted to travel back in time and affect something so I wouldn't be here.)
But, thankfully, Jake is the one who stops my fall through these black, unending chasms.
I feel bad for him in that he doesn't really understand what's going on. (Truthfully, neither do I.) And I know this is affecting our relationship; it's not allowing me to be as open and close with him as he deserves. I try, but I'm afraid I fall short. (This could be the truth, or it could be my depression making me think the worst of it again.)
But don't worry about me; I am fine, 90% of the time. =0)
I haven't sought clinical help for my depression because, well, once someone labels you as such, insurance companies point that out as a risk and as a pre-existing condition.
I have some ProZAC from my doctor; I haven't taken any of it. After it was prescribed, a coworker told me that it really messes with the chemical balances in your head, to the point that you see weird things with it and can't function without it. (Her brother had apparently had these things happen to him when he was on it, so she was warning me.) It scared me to the point that the bottle is still sitting on top of my television.