Depression hates me. So I hate me.

Author in front of the Brooklyn bridge, in NYC.

Until now. (Hopefully…)

I always have crazy ideas. Starting a website in which I’m going to write about depression and putting it together in 24 hours would be one. One of hundreds of ideas to be honest. My life is littered with the notebooks, computer files, and crumpled papers from 40 years worth of never started dreams.

There are books, paintings, news articles, speeches and TV pilots. Keeping them company are small business ideas, podcast themes, and no fewer than eight other websites which never got the wings to fly. They congregate in my storage trading stories about how close they each came to making it in the Real World.

None of them ever did though because

Depression.

Yeah, that fucking mental illness I’ve had to live with most of the 40 years I’ve been on the planet. (I think the first 3 were pretty good, but I don’t really remember.) Each time I dared to think I had a great idea or a fantastic way to burn my creative energy Ba-BAM! Here came Depression to tell me I was an idiot. And that was when Depression was being nice.

So nothing ever happened. Or very little anyway.

I mean, I was able to get through school (barely) and then college (ha, even less so). A teaching job followed after years job rejection and trying Teacher Grad school (thank you first Recession I lived through.) A career in education then solved my Depression…HA! I couldn’t even finish the joke there. Nope, a career as a high school teacher has only super-sized my Depression to the point of being my constant companion.

Well, no that’s not really the whole story. And I’ve always wanted to tell stories. Remember the list of non-starters from above? It’s all about the stories: real, imagined, and in-between.

So here we are. Or here I am setting this website up and writing this less than 12 hours before it is supposed to go live to the world.

So what changed?

The month did.

Suddenly it was March and I was staring down the coming of my 40th birthday. Now before you get all, “Oh look, a dumb privileged white woman is going to start her mid-life crisis” I want you to shut up and listen. It’s not that I’m scared of getting older. I like getting older. It means I haven’t killed myself. Literally.

No this was the realization that I was about to start another decade and I still let Depression tell me how worthless me, my ideas and my existence were. I’ve been living with my own set of social media trolls in my head since before there were ANY social media trolls. I spent my entire life doing what many people, especially those who are the children of someone or women or both: trying to make other people happy. Through therapy I realized it wasn’t really to make them happy, it was because I knew I could never make myself happy. Because I HATE myself. Or Depression hates me and since it’s part of me it’s a real pickle.

So with my 4oth birthday looming ever closer I thought, ‘Self, maybe you should start to act on all those urges you have to create things. Maybe you should really just go for it, depression be damned.’

And that is how you and I got here. Me writing and you reading.

This is not the perfect space I wanted. For one thing I can’t get the stupid title to stop scrolling and I bet there’s a typo or 17,000 in here. But I had to hit “LAUNCH” when I finished. Because Depression told me not to do it.

And I’m not wasting time listening to Depression any more.

Published by Elizabeth

Freelance writer, science teacher, dog owner, Bills fan. Dreams of moving to NYC. I do what I want.

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