The Long (and Shitty) Road to Feeling Okay

By now, most of you should realise that there are precious few things in my life I won't freely talk about. Although I update this blog sporadically, I have cheerfully thrown the intimate details of my messy personal life at you like a plate of hot spaghetti, hoping that it will one day bond us in a dripping tomato-flavoured camaraderie (and second degree burns). Rather than pretend I'm some sort of otherworldly creature that has no use for embarrassing bodily functions and is always photogenic, I admit that I'm human and I fuck up. There's no shame in that, because there's not one human being that doesn't.

Except this man. This man is perfect.

So everyone knows that I do dumb things more than occasionally. In fact, if you're one of my nearest and dearest, you've probably seen it in person. You know that I drink too much, I don't understand most basic social cues and can't sing to save my life. You've heard my numerous stories about vomiting every colour of the rainbow, and that time everyone saw me naked at my birthday party. If you went to school with me, you've probably seen me cry in class more than once over something as insignificant as a fucking 16 out of 20 for creative writing.

Seriously, fuck you, 15 year old me. Grow some goddamn balls.

I'm establishing all this because despite my proclaimed love of honesty and being genuine, there are still things in my life that make my gut churn when I consider bringing them up. I know it's hard to believe, but behind this huge, hulking testosterone-fueled exterior... I am just as scared of rejection and criticism as I was at age thirteen. I am a human being with stupid, useless emotions and unfortunately, said stupid, useless emotions make it really hard to not care about whether people like me. Sure, I'm not too much of a wimp about it. One of the benefits of getting older is realising that there's no way to please every single person at the same time (unless you're at an orgy and have vibrating dildos strapped all over your body, like some sort of magical super sexual hedgehog. And no, I can't find a gif for that metaphor). However, you also realise that sometimes, it's best to try and limit the damage you may accidentally inflict on your personal relationships by keeping your goddamn mouth shut.

For example, there are certain topics a well-meaning person can bring up in a conversation that will quickly devolve into everyone flinging shit in each other's faces, no matter how innocent the original intention was. Topics like "feminism", "abortion", "refugees", "the environment", "veganism", "politics" and the granddaddy of all argument-starters, "religion" very rarely can be discussed without someone getting offended. Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one, they stink sometimes and no one wants someone else's shoved up in their face (unless they're extremely close and like butt stuff). This is why that unless I'm with people who know me well enough to accept that I have some controversial views on things, I won't discuss these topics. After years of needless conflict, I've learned my lesson- that voicing your personal opinions very rarely enlightens others, it just gives them more reason to think you're a complete douche.

One such topic that I rarely discuss, despite its huge presence in my life, is mental illness. And to be honest, can you blame me? Despite living in a world where there are so many facilities that cater specifically to understanding and spreading awareness about psychological issues, there is still a massive taboo surrounding the mentally ill. Be honest. When I use that phrase, do you think of an average, everyday person or do you think of a urine-stained homeless guy ranting and raving to himself at a bus stop? Or better yet, does your mind immediately go to white padded rooms, grim-faced orderlies and hypodermics filled with opiates? To be honest, I'm guess I'm just making a huge generalisation here, but it astounds me how many people simply do not understand that for a lot of people, mental illness is just another part of their lives. They get up, they go about their daily routine  and the only difference between them and everyone else is a little voice in the back of their head telling them how pathetic they are and convincing them the world would be better off if they just crawled under the house and died.

I'm talking specifically about depression here, because I don't really have enough personal experience with other illnesses to address it in any way other than making some sweeping generalisations. Oh boy. Depression. One in seven Australians experiences depression in their lifetime and yet so many young people haven't the faintest clue about how and why it happens. To be honest, I can kind of see why it's so hard to understand. You're sad, right? Well, then... do something that makes you feel better! Look at you! You're just sitting there, moping. Why don't you get up and do something? Everyone else can do it. Why can't you? It's your own fault you're depressed. You're not even trying to do anything about it.

Thing is... sometimes, you just can't.

Depression has been a presence in my life for as long as I can remember, even before I experienced it myself. To be honest, with a background like mine, it was probably inevitable that it would eventually happen to me. One of my earliest memories of my mother is of her in bed, ashen-faced and tired because one day, everything just got far too hard and she had to stop. And although eventually she got back up again, she never was quite the same. Depression is like that. Whether it makes you weaker or stronger, ultimately something changes within you. 

Just typing this is making me feel a little sick in my stomach. I have a fundamental fear of divulging any information that makes me look weaker, and if there's anything that stops me dead in my tracks, it's realising that my own brain often betrays me. But, to be honest, it shouldn't be a source of stigma. So many people are walking around with the knowledge that something inside them is making them unhappy. So many people find it hard just to place their feet on the floor every morning to get out of bed. Sometimes, it can be damn hard to find a reason to keep being part of the world. It happens.

The first time I ever experienced serious, clinical depression, I was thirteen years old. At this age, most doctors won't even consider diagnosing you with a mental illness unless you do something absolutely batshit insane, because there's always the possibility that you're just whacked out on hormones. I couldn't tell you the countless times I was hauled into a doctor's office from thirteen to fifteen only to be told that all my feelings could be attributed to simply being a teenage girl. To be fair, I see their point. Crying a lot and being moody is pretty much part of the territory for going through puberty. However, waking up every morning and feeling so stressed because I didn't feel like I had the energy to get through a whole day was not, and no amount of prescriptions for various types of hormone-adjusting birth control could change that.

It happened gradually.I remember that all I wanted to do was sleep. The funny thing was, I just couldn't. I'd go to bed utterly exhausted and drained, usually crying over something or other, and my brain just wouldn't shut off. I'd lie there in my bed, completely paralyzed as I replayed every single personal failure I ever had over and over again.  Everything I obsessed over, everything that I saw as so fundamentally bad and wrong about myself I now recognise as meaningless, trivial bullshit, but at the time, it seemed so much bigger. I was slowly convincing myself that not only was I a bad person, I was so awful, pathetic and lowly that the world would be so much better if I just plain didn't exist any more.

And to be honest, not existing sounded like a fucking pleasure cruise compared to what I had to live with every single day. It was like all my senses were gradually fading and all I was left with was this odorless, palette-numbing experience of the world occasionally punctuated by the metallic taste of fear One of the main signs of depression is losing interest and enjoyment in the things that used to give you pleasure. For me, the concepts of "interest" and "enjoyment" ceased to have any meaning.

Oh, I tried. I still blundered around, hoping that if I forced myself through enough activities I used to find enjoyable, I might just be able to trick myself into having some fun. Of course, this didn't work. As soon as I tried to do something remotely distracting, my brain would pipe up with a definite "no, fuck that, you're not getting away that easy" and would proceed to systematically ruin any hope I had of escaping the immense farty cloud of boredom that was slowly enveloping my life.

Reading a book? Fuck you, you'll never be able to write like that. Watch a movie? Fuck you, all those girls are beautiful, thin and perfect, and you will never look like that because you're too fucking lazy. Hanging around with my friends? Fuck you. They only hang around because they feel sorry for you. All you do is hurt people. They'd be so much happier if you just curled up into a ball and died.

Just fuck you, Phoebe. You are shit. You will never be anything other than shit.

Of course, now that I'm a lot older and have self-esteem shooting out of my ass, I can laugh off all the horrible things I used to say to myself. Writing well takes a shitload of practice, not even the girls in movies look that good in real life and if my friends didn't like me, they would have given up on me long ago. I made a huge mistake by being narcissistic enough to think that all my flaws were of utmost significance to the happiness of those around me. Turns out, they aren't. Much like how I don't really give two shits about what other people are doing most of the time, people also don't really give two shits about what's going on in my life. In a way, it's strangely liberating. Sure, I'm probably doomed to live my life in obscurity, but at the same time, no one will be reading about me centuries from now and hear all about how I deliberately put off shaving my legs and armpits until I have to go out.

Oh come on, like any of you shave when that part of your body isn't on show.

That's the really shitty part of depression, the part where you become so self-centred that you forget that people exist outside of their relationships with you. You're so focused on your own inability to feel happiness or pleasure or yearning or fucking ANYTHING that other people become expendable. I found I couldn't listen to anyone's problems any more, or respond to their requests for help, because how on earth could I be any use when I couldn't even help myself? Ultimately, this was a pretty selfish thing for me to do and I let a lot of people down. I expected them to be there for me when I needed them and then refused to offer the same back, because not only did I not have the energy, I was also so scared of being a disappointment. It basically broke down into me being incredibly parasitic in my personal relationships, which would sadly recur numerous times during my teens. And here was the worst part about finally recovering... I had to face up to just how badly I'd treated everyone around me.

It's pretty ridiculous- here I was, finally feeling things other than abject disgust about myself for the first time in years, and I had to come to the realisation that yes, I was a completely selfish, shitty douche. It took a long time to make up for, but luckily I happen to be surrounded by people who somehow overlook my assholish behavior because for whatever reason, they love me. And I'll always be grateful for that, because honestly, I don't know what I'd do if they weren't around.

Here is where I'd tell you guys I love you... but that would be so fucking sappy, I think I'd puke. 

So instead, here is a dog with a duck on their head. 

So basically, the story sort of has a happy ending. I got better. I learned how to be a functioning human being again... mostly. I experienced true love's kiss, rode off into the sunset on my trusty steed with a fair wench and never experienced such dark and dreary misery ever again.

Of course, that's total fucking bullshit. The story never ended. Turns out, depression has this habit of recurring and while I've not experienced anything as intense as that first incident, I know that it still happens to me. It's kind of like watching a horror movie. I saw the monster die, and for a moment, I am so certain in my knowledge that it'll never bother me again. Then, I feel something cold and dead grasp my ankle, and the pit of my stomach drops, because oh fuck, it's happening again. 

I don't really know how this is going to affect the rest of my life. Maybe in a decade, I'll wake up one morning and realise that I can't recall feeling any form of soulless ennui for a good many years. Maybe when I'm dying, I'll look back at my life and wearily note that all along, parts of it withered away into a grey blur. But it is something I have to acknowledge about myself to even have the slightest hope of dealing with it.

I am Phoebe Montgomery. Some mornings, I don't physically feel capable of getting out of bed, but that's okay. I beat myself up over the smallest of failures, but that's okay. I may feel like there's no way forward a lot of the time, but that's okay. Even if it's only in the smallest possible measure, it's okay and one day, I'm going to feel okay again.

My name is Phoebe Montgomery and I'm mostly okay.

I hope you're okay too.

BeyondBlue (the facts)