worldsaway

I think depression gets a bad rap. It’s honestly so misunderstood. People are quick to say, “ugh, I’m feeling really depressed today,” or “man, I’m just so depressed.” But what’s the difference between being sad and being depressed?

For me, depression isn’t sadness at all. It’s the absence of feeling. I don’t feel sad, I don’t feel happy—there’s just… nothing. No joy, no anger, no frustration. Just numbness.

And the weird part? That numbness can still bring tears. But those tears don’t always mean I’m sad. A lot of the time, it’s just everything I’ve shoved down finding a way out. I used to think that made me weak. If I cry, I’m weak. If I get angry, I’m out of control. If I’m frustrated, that’s on me. And happy? I don’t even remember what that feels like.

So what do you do in a body that feels nothing… and somehow everything all at once?

I don’t understand it. So I don’t really expect anyone else to either.

I also think it’s important to say this: depression isn’t just an emotion. It’s a disruption in the brain. It’s not something you fix with a bowl of ice cream and a good cry (tragic, honestly). It’s a battle—and once you’re in it, it tends to stick around. It ebbs and flows, sure, but it doesn’t just pack up and leave one day.

So what do I do with that? With the idea that this dark cloud might hang around for most of my life? How do I get away from it? Avoid it? Keep it from creeping into every part of my life?

I don’t know.

I’m not a professional—but I’ve seen a few.

It started with my doctor. I went in, cried (obviously), and tried to explain how lost and alone I felt. I didn’t want anyone to know how bad it had gotten, but I also knew I couldn’t keep going like that.

She listened and said, “This sounds like Major Depressive Disorder. I think we should start you on an SSRI. We’ll start low and adjust as needed.”

“Okay,” I said, like I had any idea what that meant.

(For the record—and for my own pride—I did not cry while she was in the room. I waited until she left.)

I really thought that was going to fix me. Like, perfect—problem identified, solution given. I’ll be back to myself in no time.

Except… I couldn’t even remember who “myself” was.

Months went by. We increased the dose. Six months in, I was at the highest dose allowed. Surely this is where I magically become a functioning human again, right?

No. Very wrong.

By the end of the first year, I had my first panic attack.

Which was confusing, because I thought I had depression, not anxiety. Cute. Turns out they’re actually besties.

That panic attack terrified me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop shaking or crying. I couldn’t move. It lasted about an hour, and I had no idea what to do.

I knew people who dealt with anxiety and panic attacks, but I didn’t reach out. For some reason, I convinced myself they’d think I was copying them. Which makes zero sense now, but at the time felt very real. So I kept it to myself. Added a nice layer of shame on top, because why not.

Later, I realized it was probably tied to a deep fear of abandonment. Fun. Love that for me.

Around that time, someone I wasn’t super close to asked me to get coffee. Turns out, a friend of mine had reached out to her and suggested I might need some encouragement (still a little salty about that, but whatever).

That coffee changed things. She gently—very gently—suggested therapy.

Great. I have to talk to someone. About myself. On purpose. Regularly. Hard pass.

But for some reason, I trusted her. She was the kind of person who’s calm and kind but also a little intimidating in a “she sees right through you” way. So… I did it.

I got connected with my first therapist.

Before my first session, I sat in my car trying to convince myself to go in. I literally had to count myself out of the car. “Okay, get out at 10.” Like I was negotiating with a toddler. (The toddler was me.)

I made it inside.

It was terrible.

I was uncomfortable the entire 50 minutes. And then she told me I should come twice a week for the next several months. Absolutely not. I don’t speak up for myself often, but even I knew that wasn’t happening.

I went back the next week. Still terrible.

By the third session, I knew it wasn’t the right fit. So naturally, I confirmed my next appointment… and then canceled it two days later and never went back. Growth, but make it chaotic.

I told my (still slightly scary) friend I had tried. She was unimpressed. Told me to try again.

Rude. But fair.

So I tried again.

And that’s when I met my therapist.

From the start, it felt different. She reassured me that if anything ever felt off, I could say so. She suggested every other week, which felt way more manageable. I’m so grateful for her.

We worked together for about a year in person before she betrayed me and moved across the country. We continued virtually, and she helped me unpack a lot—especially my relationship with my mom, who is… let’s just say complicated.

She gave me tools, space to vent, and a lot of patience. A true “girl’s girl” therapist. If you know, you know.

Then she told me she was pregnant. Amazing. So happy for her.

Also—wait. That means maternity leave. That means no therapy for months.

“It’s fine,” I told myself. “I’m basically healed.”

LOL. No.

Right before her leave, everything kind of hit at once. It was the holidays, I had just gone no-contact with my mom, and I was about to spend my first Christmas in 29 years without my family.

So yeah. Perfect timing.

I tried finding a temporary therapist. Spent weeks talking to different ones. Nothing clicked. Meanwhile, my mental health was quickly falling apart. No big deal.

Then—once again—my friend came through and recommended her therapist.

Why not? What’s one more attempt?

I met with her the week after Christmas.

And suddenly, my friend wasn’t scary anymore… because this therapist? Terrifying. In the best, most “she sees into your soul” kind of way.

I’ve been seeing her for a few months now, and I’ve experienced more growth—and more struggle—in that time than I expected.

She gave me space to build trust, which is not something that comes easily to me. And here’s something wild: with my previous therapist, I cried once during my time with her.

With this one? By session four, I was crying before I was even able to sit on the couch.

Which told me something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet—my body trusted her.

That’s still scary.

And the sessions aren’t easy. They’re hard. Draining. Sometimes painfully quiet while I dissociate my way through difficult memories. But they’re also healing.

And I’m not healed. Not even close.

I still have depressive episodes. I probably always will. And yeah—that’s still a scary thought.

But I’m starting to learn something different now.

If I have people I can trust—people who challenge me, who show up for me, who hold space for me—then I can get through the hard days.

If I have people who are honest with me, who can sit with me, who can help me carry the weight of all this until it feels a little lighter—then I’ll be okay.

If I have people who can make me laugh, who I feel safe enough to cry with, who bring me joy just by being around—then I’ll be okay.

If I have people who can gently bring me back to myself when I start to drift—

I’ll be okay.