Dear Self


I am frustrated with myself.

I’m sleeping too much, eating shit, not working out. Not working on things I need to work on. Or I am, but not enough, with little concentration.

I have all the symptoms of depression, which is ironic because I am not depressed. I think this is what normal people think depressed is, but it’s not. I am lethargic, I am unmotivated, I am anxious and avoident, I am stuck. But I’m not fucking depressed. I know this because I have been there. I have felt that. I know what that is. That is a piece of me that I feel so intimately and so completely it escapes words and defies all logic. I know. I am so fucking tired of people telling me I am depressed and to cut myself some slack because I have depression.

Lets get this right, shall we? I do not hold a diagnosis of major depression. I’m bipolar. Swing-swing, episodic, comes and goes and all that. Last month? Last month I was depressed. This month I’m just sucking at life.

I know that this goes against everything mental health advocates are arguing for, but I’m going to fucking say it. This? This right here, with the bed and the poutine and the 7 quarts of vodka. This is poor choices. This is a buck up get off your ass and change something moment. This is not my fucking mental illness. Everything I do doesnt have some underlying bipolar cause. Sometimes, I’m just having a shitty couple weeks and I get lazy and don’t take care of myself just like everybody else.

And I know you are trying to make me feel better about the fact I am not holding my shit together, and I very much appreciate that but I can’t do this forever. I have done that, I have been broken, I took the time I did the steps. I can’t stay here basking in the excuse that is my perpetual break down. It’s done. It’s over. This is recovery. This is choosing to be better. This is moving forward.

This is not depression. This is a choice.


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