Depression Talk

I have no idea when my journey with mental health issues started. I know that I have always been a counter. It is because of this love for all things counting that I am amazed that I once got a pity 50% in math class because I was just THAT BAD at all things mathematical. I suppose I can blame this ineptitude for sending me into the field of Sociology.

I had lots of social issues in public school, and really, I’m sure this surprises no one because who was teased in public school and ended up normal in real life? Not too many, that’s who. I suppose the first time I thought that something might be wrong with me was at the end of grade school, when I spent hours upon hours plugged in to my walkman, drowning out everything else that was around me.

I discovered real writing at this time: Pouring out my heart and soul into notebooks, on the backs of quizzes, on industrial strength paper towels in the barn. I had always been a writer, and until this point my writing had all been fluff. It was the eighth grade that really got to me, really made me wonder about the shallowness of people. Everyone was obsessed with Adidas, Nike, Tommy Jeans, Gap, and so forth.

I guess part of what made me different from other people was my desire to question that. I didn’t understand why people thought that a T-shirt or sweater with one word or another would be any different than any other T-shirt you could buy. To this day, I’m incredibly fashion-unconscious, and I frequently wear a plaid jacket out in the streets when it’s chilly. Because it’s chilly. I do insist that certain things I own are of certain brands, like my car, which is a Chevrolet, and I will never buy a product that is non-GM.

One thing that has stuck with me for years was a dear friend telling me that all the really brilliant people are crazy. Like Van Gough cutting off his own ear. Like the number of rock stars on drugs. Like Kurt Cobain taking his own life. All the really brilliant people are crazy.

Teachers used to really take note of my creative writing topics, and would sometimes criticize me for choosing topics that were too deep and sad. You’re so young, they’d chide me. You should be writing about happy things.

I would share my poetry with some teachers who would ask and who I liked enough. The first time that I thought I might be crazy was when a teacher actually referred to one of my poems as brilliant and deep. She said it really brought imagery to her mind and made her think. Then she told me that I should focus on being a little more happy, she said that I seemed depressed.

The thought of being someone who could be labelled depressed scared the crap out of me at the time. It funny how now I’ve learned to embrace it as an integral part of who I am. I don’t think I would be the same sarcastic person, the same girl with the same outlooks on this life and this world without being crazy. It has added a new perspective to things, allowed me to understand parts of why people do what they do from an angle that I don’t think people can have without that added dimension of being insane themselves.

That is not, of course, to say that I recommend insanity to people as a way to broaden their minds because, Dear God, I really don’t know that it would be worth it.

Amanda