Isolation.

It’s funny how paradoxical depression is. People rally around you, offer their care and support for the difficult time you’re going through. But that begins to add to the despair, for me at least. I get to a point, a point so low and dark that I can’t stand the thought of speaking to anyone. I can’t look people in the eye, I can’t answer a phone call or reply to a text message. The urge to isolate is so strong that you push everyone away from you. It intensifies the loneliness you feel in this illness, a fucked up self sabotage that leaves you craving the intimacy of a friend that you can’t bear to say a word to.

Then comes the anxiety. The anxiety that they’re going to leave you, that they’ve given all that they can but they can’t deal with you anymore. In some twisted corner of your mind you rejoice, rejoice in the fact that you were right to cut the ties that keep you grounded and instead float away.

Logic is still present. A clear sense of understanding that they have a life too. That they have their struggles, that they need your support as well. It feels impossible. Having such a strong awareness of the absurdity of this invisible illness keeps me awake at night. How hard is it to pick up a phone? How hard is it to reach out, to get dressed and get a coffee? Self hatred begins to seep in to the swirling concoction of your mind, every thought putting up a battle to the other.

So I end up here. Isolation enforced only by myself. The loneliest fight going on in my head while I fight against all attempts of support.

Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

 

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