My Skin Is Not My Own

Who am I today? I feel like I am not myself. Not anymore.

I am mentally ill. I have been, probably for the past quarter century. Mine has been a life of ASID – anxiety, suicide ideation, and depression.

For many years, I did not comprehend what was happening. I understood my depression as being circumstantial; it existed in the bad moments, would vanish in the good. What I didn’t realise then, but comprehend today, is that my depression was influential in how I perceived the good times and the bad.

Moments came and went that I did not fathom in their true depths. I am a gambling addict, something I saw as being a product of my first days at university being bored. Now, I see that the ‘boredom’ was a lack of motivation caused by depression. I never understood my failure to enjoy simple pleasures that usually kept me happily occupied. Now I recognise my anhedonia for what it is – a symptom.

Sometimes, I found music particularly grating, almost painful. Not just any music, but music I usually enjoyed. I am sure there were times I didn’t associate the music with discomfort; I just bore it. Now I know it was an anxiety reaction.

On many occasions, I considered the unhappiness of my life, and it came to me that there might be other options. Or, rather, one option. To be truthful, I never really considered suicide. Not seriously. Yet, it has prayed on my mind, and my fear has always been that one day I will consider it seriously.

One thing I am associated with; being serious.

Over time, particularly in the past five years, I have found a greater understanding of my mental health, the strengths, the limitations. I had tried over time to manage this without medication. I always had this sense that medication is a step that cannot be reversed, and that is wrong, but it’s there.

So today, after speaking my GP, and agreeing to anti-depressants, I feel like I have stepped into a different world. It’s uncharted territory. Having to worry about the side effects of medication, as much as the impact of not taking it, is an extra burden.

I hate the comparison, but it is a bit like I have been fighting a war, and someone has handed me a weapon that could hurt me as much as my enemy.

In truth, saying my mental illness is an enemy is being disingenuous. It has been a part of me, influencing my decisions, for better or for worse, and shaping my life. This is why I am uncertain. Taking away the influence, in this manner, is removing a part of me.

It may be for the better, but time will tell.

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