It's Not Leprosy.

         My depression.

         That’s what they were calling it. Like it was a pet following too closely behind. But isn’t that what it was? A living, breathing thing, always over my shoulder, waiting for its moment to shine? And it was. Always there, I mean. Whenever I was taking a shower, or sleeping, or reading, or out shopping with my mom and even during sex with my boyfriend: back there, lurking.

         I’ve been depressed for as long as I can remember. Middle school was when it started to really dig in its claws. A constant struggle for control. I wanted to be happy; my depression did not. No matter what I did. I would hang out with friends as often as I could. I’d sit in my room with music blasting and reading the happiest books I could find trying to drown out its voice. Upon reflection, it does make sense now, why I would gravitate towards the most superficial works I could find in the bookstores. I went through so many books when it first started...

         I battled all through middle and high school, and finally got partially diagnosed my senior year. That was the year my father decided my mother no longer made him happy and went to live with a woman who was the same age as my older brother and I’d experienced my first bout of heartbreak. A lot of you would guess where my depression took a turn for the worse, and it did, but nothing I hadn’t been through before. I’ve always been an emotional person, which probably didn’t help matters much. No, the shift this time was that I was forced to carry not only myself through my heartbreak but also my mother through hers. It was me who convinced her to get up in the mornings. It was me who sat there and held her hand when she got a text or a call from him demanding some document or another. It was me who laid in bed with her when she sobbed late into the evening.

         It was then when I decided to take my mother’s Lexapro. I’d had enough waking up in the mornings crying because I’d dreamt of him again. It’d gotten to the point where I dreamt nothing was wrong and he (both my first love and my father) was in my life and the past 5 months had been erased. That was the hardest part. I saw a therapist regularly until I self-medicated myself into false complacency with a new boyfriend. I hadn’t even liked him all that much, but it was better than going to bed, believing no one cared a bit about me, even if it was at his expense.

         But I believe I’m getting off-topic again...

         Like I said, my “depression” was always there waiting. Still is. I should have mentioned earlier: there is no happy ending to this story. No miraculous cure or magical drug that takes all my pain away. I still wake up some days and feel everything is hopeless. Nothing I do is every good enough. Everyone will eventually leave me anyway, so why build relationships? There is no cure for utter hopelessness. The feeling that nothing is good or ever will be good again. But the worst part is the emptiness. The vast crevasse in my soul that no food or attention or purchase can fill.

         For a very long time, I believed I was the only one who felt this. I know now that I am not. But I am the only one who feels this “depression.” It’s unique. I recently went to the psychiatrist and was loosely diagnosed with mood disorder (short for bi-polar disorder), obsessive-compulsive disorder, anxiety and depression. My own cocktail of depression. Maybe they’ll call it the Celeste after me, for those who get the same mix. I am still my own brand of crazy. And I am. Crazy, I mean. Am I not? Why else would I start fights with those I love, just to see them angry? Why else would I skip classes and lie in bed all day? Why else would I put my head down when I saw someone I knew from high school or college classes and pretend I was engrossed in some other very pressing task?

         I am Celeste. I am crazy, I am abnormal, and I am depressed. It’s as much a part of me as my hair color or the shape of my ears. I will battle this disease until the day I die. But I am not alone. There are Shannons and Christophers and Jennifers and Matthews. They are their own brand of crazy too. We are depressed, we are angry, we are chronic liars. We hurt others to make ourselves feel a little better. We drink alcohol in excess alone until we pass out and no longer feel the weight of despair. We are not what society brands “normal” or “average” or “well.” But we are people just the same.