The true indicator of a trauma is how vividly and detailed you can remember such events, or altogether block them out. Many time’s we gaze at others problems and think to ourselves “so glad that’s not my life, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself” or wake up sweating with tears streaming down our cheek only to breath a sigh of relief to find that it was only just a dream. One could say I was living in a dream in my own life and the day I woke up was the last day I looked at the world with rose colored glass. Prior to that day I was unbelievably the happiest person I knew. Remembering back to those dreamy days it almost seemed unfair how ridiculously joyous and at peace I was. But honestly who lives in a 24/7 untouched, unshaken world? When I was living in that world it felt as though someone had given me an undeserving gift, a gift that I had no clue how to repay. I had no right to be living so high on life. When I did get hit with truths too hard to handle I could not wipe the tears away like I use to from horrific dreams. I could not ignore it, I could not escape the problem when I was the problem all I could do was crawl back in bed In the hope to escape. I had been robbed of a precious gift that I had taken for granted, things to great to last, things I wish I could get back
I remember when I read the symptom of depression “sleepi ng frequently” I felt that it was interesting for website to have the gall to tell people how to spot us but no explanation for why we are us. I theorize that all the sleeping people are just trying to wake from the nightmare and get back to the places they use to be, like a time machine. And after at least ten years of suffering with depression the toughest part of the disease, for me, was the ability to remember when I WAS happy, I can still remember how it looked and felt, free.
Many have an opinion or thought of their own, friends, family, celebs, health-nuts, and many of which do not hold a single Phd of experience. In the end, I’ve become victim, three times over by people who knew better, people who didn’t, and myself, in a desperate attempt to swim out of the mass of depression. The stigma and ignorance that surrounded my state, along with the discovery of how easy one can be prescribed an unsuited narcotic to ones misdiagnosed condition , would soon lead me into a tug –of-war, on-the wagon-off-the-wagon battle. Too many times, unbeknownst to me, I would turn myself into a guinea pig, experimented on whilst the public on looked at the behaviors that resulted. Testing out new depression drugs on the market that doctors would prescribe me, paid behind closed doors I’m sure for “X” amount to be distributed to clients. Enduring all the tribulation associated with being give meds in SSRI and NRI categories when in actuality my solution would be in another category all its own.
And as the triad of insurance, doctors and pharm companies played monkey in the middle with my head while filling their pockets I would wrestle for years with the Dr Jekyl and Mr Hyde inside……this is not the life I chose.