a confession, a promise, a beginning
TW: depression, thoughts of suicide
february 23rd, 2025
I was first diagnosed with major depression nearly seven years ago, but I’m pretty sure I’d been depressed for much longer.
At the time of my diagnosis, I was about to graduate from college and not sure about anything anymore. I tried imagining my life after graduation, but it felt impossible.
It was a world that would never come.
A dream for someone else.
I was simply gliding through life; outside of my body, I watched as my form marched along through the entropic flow of time. I wanted it to all stop. I’ve always wanted it to all stop.
I still do.
During my first quarter of college, I became lost. With the new normal of college life, I quickly realized how much of my life had been propelled just by getting into college itself. I had lost all internal motivation systems for pursuing anything else. And by all means, I was extremely accomplished. Not only had I gotten into one of the best universities in the world, it was my top choice at that. I was so lucky just to be there. I had no right to complain.
But part of me had died when I started college.
Or perhaps rather, I had killed part of myself in the process of trying to get where I now was.
Or, perhaps more likely, this part of myself had never even been alive in the first place.
When I was in high school, nearly everything I did was for the purpose of getting into a good college. I decided that I wanted to major in Biology, not because it was my passion (though I was interested in the topic), but because my mom told me that girls majoring in STEM had a better chance of getting into a selective college. I would hold back tears in class whenever I got a grade lower than an A. I was embarrassed. I was terrified. Terrified of failing, not because it felt like a personal failure, but because I was terrified of what punishment waited at home when I had to share my grades. When I was in the 10th grade and taking my first college-level class, I was so stressed that for a period of several months, I could barely eat without feeling like I was going to vomit. Nobody ever did anything about it. Rather, I was often told that I was making my stomach issues up.
I think about that a lot now.
I didn’t have time to be tired, to rest, to care for my health. I functioned on adrenaline alone. I worked nearly nonstop, sacrificing my sleep and my well-being for perfect grades. For perfect test scores.
For a perfect self.
I had a strangely Puritanic mindset despite being raised in a quite liberal home: No cussing, no alcohol, no drugs, no sex. I wanted to be the perfect child. I needed to be the perfect child. I often think about how much my younger self would hate who I am now. How scared she would be of me. How much she wouldn’t recognize me as herself. Sometimes I still hear her judging me, shaming me, admonishing me, mourning me. Sometimes I still listen.
you’re broken
you’re dirty
you’re selfish
you’re worthless
you’re meaningless
you’re a waste of space
you’re beyond redemption
you’re better off dead you’re better off dead you’re better off dead you’re better off
dead
I’m starting to think that it’s better that I disappoint her.
I don’t want to be her anymore.
I know I’m not her anymore.
I’ve changed.
But I’m also not quite sure who I am anymore.
And that’s okay.
Rather, I find myself feeling joy in the prospect of being undefinable when so much of my youth had been spent trying to conform to certain definitions and expectations. I feel joy in all of the possibilities that stretch out before me. And I feel joy in not knowing exactly where I’m going.
For the first time in years—or perhaps for the first time ever—I’m feeling at peace with myself. I’m feeling excited and motivated to put myself out there. I’m feeling awake.
Writing this isn’t easy for me. For years, I’ve felt like no one cares about what I have to say, about what I’m making, about what I’m thinking. Ideas that I’d get for essays, creative projects, or even just a simple post on social media would get shot down by whispers about how no one will care. About how I will disgust the people around me by using my voice. About how it is better to stay quiet.
I want to write again.
I want to make again.
I want to want again.
I want to be again.
I’ve been trying to challenge myself more by putting myself out there. It was only a little thing, but I nearly cried when I posted the poster for my upcoming talk at school on thesis on my Instagram story. So many people, people I didn’t even know that well, liked my story. I thought about the time that I had a performance night for the storytelling class I took at the improv club the year after I graduated from college during the lowest point of my struggle with depression. I thought about how I didn’t tell anyone that I had a performance. I thought about how no one came to watch me. I thought about how alone I was watching my classmates talk to their friends, their family members congratulate them on their performance.
I thought about how sad I was.
I thought about how I used to cry when I opened my eyes in the morning or after depression naps because I wished that I hadn’t woken up.
I thought about how I used to keep my eyes closed for as long as possible so that I might disappear into sleep again.
I thought about how I wanted to die.
I thought about how I want to be alive now.
I want to be alive now.
I want to be alive.
I WANT TO BE ALIVE
I don’t expect anyone to come to my talk this time either, but the fact that I was even able to promote myself at all is a huge step forward.
I want to connect more with the people around me. I want them to know me. I want to be known by them. And I want to know them back.
I’m not sure how much I’ll actually end up using this blog. I’m feeling motivated right now, but I also know that feelings of motivation ebb and flow. It could all be gone by tomorrow. I could be back in the pits of depression tomorrow. I know it will never fully go away. I know it will be something I live with for my whole life.
But I want to try anyway.
I want to try anyway.
I want to challenge myself. I want to know that it’s not selfish to put myself out there. I want to find worth in myself.
I have worth in myself.
I HAVE WORTH IN MYSELF
I know that I’m not alone in these feelings. I know that so many of us feel lost, feel alone, feel like nobody would care if we disappear. I don’t want you to feel alone. If at least one person finds meaning in reading this and perhaps feels less alone in their own struggles, I’ll be satisfied.
Even if that person only ends up being me.
Thank you for reading. I cannot express how much it means to me.
Finally I’m ready for the silence
Finally I’m ready for nothing
Maybe I, maybe I’ve been selfish
Maybe I, maybe I’ve been selfless
Maybe I, maybe I’ve been worthless
Maybe I, maybe I’ve been worth it
Maybe I, maybe I’ve been worth it
Maybe I, maybe I’ve been worth it
Maybe I, maybe I’ve been worth it
—“Worth It” by Haley Heynderickx