Christmas is the worst. There’s no other time of year when I’m as sad or as lonely. Not only has Christmas lost its sparkle, over time, I’ve come to feel so worthless that it’s unbearable to be with people. I purposely travel to places filled with people I don’t know because I’m more comfortable there, where I can pretend I’m invisible.
Depression does not always look like a weepy puddle of tears. The disease is wiley, though, and tricks my brain into believing untruths, skewing my perspective, affecting my self-esteem and, in turn, my relationships. It causes me to feel fluish and achy, induces insomnia and hypersomnia, affects my eating habits, and generally turns a good portion of my days into opposite day. Whoever I should be, I am not. Still, I am a happy and optimistic depressive. No matter how incongruous that seems. As anyone else with an illness I am suffering symptoms. Symptoms that can make me not-me. And can badly inhibit my ability to function.
Too many words? Click over to my Instagram page and look at pictures instead. I am a hobbyist photographer. A pursuit that gives me immense joy. And pain. As does writing. All photos on this site are mine, unless otherwise indicated.
