A Personal History

Fragments of a Personal History

05/03/21

I can’t write about love. I don’t think I can, at least. I can write about dysfunctional relationships, I can write about people who don’t say what they’re thinking, about people who just exist within their world without really living. As I write this, I am beginning to wonder what does it mean to be functional and therefore dysfunctional. What is the difference between existing as opposed to living? People tend to really focus on the difference between surviving and living. But, what happens when you don’t have to fight to survive and you are simply existing? I have high-functioning depression. I think. I’ve always been sad. Okay, maybe not always per se, but ever since I was sixteen I remember existing within a layer of sadness. The reason why I’m not sure if I can actually call it “high-functioning depression” is that I had to seize to function in order to get diagnosed. Maybe it became normalized? Maybe I didn’t know any different until the day I couldn’t get out of bed. I take a pill every day. It’s this square pink pill that I take in the morning. I like it, and I’m thankful for it the way you’re thankful for the friend who gives you painkillers as you’re lying in bed squirming due to period cramps. But I’d prefer not to need it. The way you’d prefer to just not have a period that causes cramps. If I haven’t been diagnosed why do I think that I have it? I don’t know. I’m not a psychiatrist. I am just a person. A person who had no reason for sadness and therefore kept on existing. And I suppose that the fact that I was able to keep existing for about 8 years means that I have it. I don’t know. It feels like a catch-22. You don’t show symptoms and thus can’t be diagnosed until you do show symptoms (which in my case meant I stopped functioning).