Hello. My name is Christopher Brumley. My friends know me as Priest. Readers know me as C. Priest Brumley. And I have Clinical Depression.
I know the majority of those that would read this are instantly going to say "duh" or an equivalent. To some of you this might come as a shock. Either way, it's something I feel I need to get off of my chest. I am a clinical depressive. Not proud, mind you, but open.
I was diag-nonsensed (Thank You, Angelina Jolie!) when I was in High School. Before that, counselors thought I had an "anger problem" coupled with an "eating disorder"... Idiots. By the time High School came about, my parents sent me to a Psychologist, who properly diagnosed me and improperly medicated me. On the meds I felt like a walking somnambulist, and stopped taking them of my own accord. To this day I refuse to take anydepression medication, for fear of reprising that feeling.
I've denied having it as bad as I do for so long, and I've become a master at playing happy in public. I even managed to convince myself that I could "control it" for a while. But, like all truths, it outed itself eventually. And now, currently in the throes of a fairly large-sized depressive fit, I feel I need to write about it, at least so I can understand it and maybe help others in the process.
Truth be told, it sucks. Imagine yourself constantly stressed, ready to blow up at anyone around you at any given second, feeling two seconds from attempting suicide, and (if you smoke, like I do) damn near giving yourself permanent laryngitis from the sheer amount of smoke you inhale and you're about halfway there. I'll touch upon all those topics at some point, but you get the idea. It is hell on Earth... Inside your own head.
The stress is the part that gets me the most. I'm a stressing person by nature. Any tiny thing that one would normally worry about for two seconds before forgetting becomes something I fret over for hours. The way I present myself to others, money, car troubles, the ongoing problem with my left eye, etc. But when my depression hits, I become almost a monster.
For example, here's a situation that happened to me recently: Our television died about a week back. Most people would shrug and either shop around for a new one, borrow a spare from a friend or family member until they can buy one, or get theirs fixed. I freaked out, rejected the generous offer of my parents to borrow a spare they had, rejected the prospects of both buying a new one andfixing our old one, and blew up on both my wife and neighbour for trying to help me find reasonably priced replacements online.
Get where I'm coming from?
The post-blowup guilt is hell as well. Normal people would apologize after raising their voice. I get sullen, non-responsive, terse, and withdraw in to my own head for hours after a situation such as above. And this is how I live.
Some parts are easier to deal with than others. The suicidal tendancies are one of them. I tried to attempt suicide once or twice when I was younger, but they were half-assed attempts at best. One even landed me in River Oaks Psychiatric Facility for eight days. Good news is, they have stopped being anywhere near as bad as they used to be, although they're still there.
Every now and then, I'll get an errant thought along the lines of, "What if I just walked in to traffic right now? Would anyone miss me?" The logical part of my brain says "Yes, dozens of people would miss me and mourn my passing." On the other hand, the depressive side says, "Do it." But, like I said, the urge isn't strong, and I firmly believe suicide is pure, unadulterated cowardice. And, despite whatever fault you may find with me, I am not a damn coward.
This is what life is like for me on a semi-regular basis. The depression can strike at random, be it a slow, oncoming thing or a sudden bout brought on by something as stupid as the cats knocking over their water bowl. It can last an hour or it can last a week.
But you'll never know. My smile's always there... On the outside.
I know the majority of those that would read this are instantly going to say "duh" or an equivalent. To some of you this might come as a shock. Either way, it's something I feel I need to get off of my chest. I am a clinical depressive. Not proud, mind you, but open.
I was diag-nonsensed (Thank You, Angelina Jolie!) when I was in High School. Before that, counselors thought I had an "anger problem" coupled with an "eating disorder"... Idiots. By the time High School came about, my parents sent me to a Psychologist, who properly diagnosed me and improperly medicated me. On the meds I felt like a walking somnambulist, and stopped taking them of my own accord. To this day I refuse to take anydepression medication, for fear of reprising that feeling.
I've denied having it as bad as I do for so long, and I've become a master at playing happy in public. I even managed to convince myself that I could "control it" for a while. But, like all truths, it outed itself eventually. And now, currently in the throes of a fairly large-sized depressive fit, I feel I need to write about it, at least so I can understand it and maybe help others in the process.
Truth be told, it sucks. Imagine yourself constantly stressed, ready to blow up at anyone around you at any given second, feeling two seconds from attempting suicide, and (if you smoke, like I do) damn near giving yourself permanent laryngitis from the sheer amount of smoke you inhale and you're about halfway there. I'll touch upon all those topics at some point, but you get the idea. It is hell on Earth... Inside your own head.
The stress is the part that gets me the most. I'm a stressing person by nature. Any tiny thing that one would normally worry about for two seconds before forgetting becomes something I fret over for hours. The way I present myself to others, money, car troubles, the ongoing problem with my left eye, etc. But when my depression hits, I become almost a monster.
For example, here's a situation that happened to me recently: Our television died about a week back. Most people would shrug and either shop around for a new one, borrow a spare from a friend or family member until they can buy one, or get theirs fixed. I freaked out, rejected the generous offer of my parents to borrow a spare they had, rejected the prospects of both buying a new one andfixing our old one, and blew up on both my wife and neighbour for trying to help me find reasonably priced replacements online.
Get where I'm coming from?
The post-blowup guilt is hell as well. Normal people would apologize after raising their voice. I get sullen, non-responsive, terse, and withdraw in to my own head for hours after a situation such as above. And this is how I live.
Some parts are easier to deal with than others. The suicidal tendancies are one of them. I tried to attempt suicide once or twice when I was younger, but they were half-assed attempts at best. One even landed me in River Oaks Psychiatric Facility for eight days. Good news is, they have stopped being anywhere near as bad as they used to be, although they're still there.
Every now and then, I'll get an errant thought along the lines of, "What if I just walked in to traffic right now? Would anyone miss me?" The logical part of my brain says "Yes, dozens of people would miss me and mourn my passing." On the other hand, the depressive side says, "Do it." But, like I said, the urge isn't strong, and I firmly believe suicide is pure, unadulterated cowardice. And, despite whatever fault you may find with me, I am not a damn coward.
This is what life is like for me on a semi-regular basis. The depression can strike at random, be it a slow, oncoming thing or a sudden bout brought on by something as stupid as the cats knocking over their water bowl. It can last an hour or it can last a week.
But you'll never know. My smile's always there... On the outside.
