Paranoia

For people struggling with major depression, I've noticed there often comes a time when nothing happening on the outside can influence what happens on the inside. Regardless of how much praise and encouragement one receives, that nagging voice of self-doubt does its best to destroy any positive feelings resulting from it. Other times, what's happening on the outside can override everything. I tend to switch between these two extremes; feeling no different from positive or negative outside influences, and feeling the same no matter what due to the constant state of restlessness that soldiers on within me.

It's a unique experience to be able to hear mice gnawing away inside one's mattress while lying on it, or to be required to empty water from the tub into the sink every day because the drain of the former no longer works. Sometimes these things have a way of staying with me, reminding me of how much I feel as though I've become stuck in this horrible, chaotic environment. It makes me question my own abilities in areas that have absolutely no relation to my home life. It makes me wonder why anyone would want to be friends or in a relationship with someone that, from my perspective, can't even get their own life together long enough to find a safe place to live.

With that in mind, it's still difficult to believe anyone would genuinely want to get to know me without having some kind of ulterior motive. This feeling has gotten much worse ever since I stopped taking antidepressants, to the point that I've gone back to thinking of myself as a horrible, annoying and ugly person that doesn't deserve anything good or positive. Although I had once known no other way to think of myself, having a brief period of relief from such extreme self-loathing has given me a new and somewhat odd perspective. Now it feels as though the medication had made it easier to lie to myself, had given me a false sense of confidence, and that I truly am as pathetic as I feel.

The reason this new perspective is odd comes from being aware of some sort of newfound duality within myself. On one hand, I consciously know I'm not as awful as I think I am and have always been my own worst critic anyway. On the other, loathing myself so deeply is so familiar that it seems right. When someone treats me unfairly, I immediately believe I must've done something to deserve it regardless of all the work I've done to get myself to believe otherwise.

Being off an antidepressant after feeling slightly better from taking it is a new form of hell I hadn't thought I'd ever know. Instead of being relatively even-tempered with occasional periods of sadness, I'm now angry and sad constantly. It's like being set off without the ability to ever calm down. Insignificant things are getting under my skin again, and I hate it.

A recent visit with my psychiatrist has left me feeling a little hopeful, though also skeptical. I'll be starting a different antidepressant that will possibly have a better outcome with less side effects than the one I had been taking. I don't even care if I have to take several different medications at once at this point, I just want some relief from hating myself and everything so much that it's mentally and physically exhausting.