I can’t say that writing about my depression on the internet has been particularly scary for me.
I’ve been a highly sensitive, extremely shy, depressed and anxious human being since I took my place in the world.
Going to pre-school, meeting strangers, auditioning for plays, and enduring four weeks of sleep away camp alerted me to how hard life would be. My peers seemed unruffled.
Interacting with the opposite sex was a tsunami of grief. There were several boys who pursued me incessantly in early high school. When they called again and again, my mom forced me to get on the phone: she didn’t want me to hurt anyone’s feelings. I’d go in the bathroom and hang up. They’d call again. It was agony.
I white knuckled it though early adulthood. Given how intensely I experience things, it’s remarkable I’ve been able to more or less meet mainstream society’s standard of ‘normalcy’.
I’ve at long last come to a finish line. I do not care what other people think of me. Unless I love you. Then I care a whole lot.
And that’s why airing my pain doesn’t scare me. I’ve been alive for over three decades: it’s about time. But even if it’d taken longer, arriving is worth every earth shaking, heart breaking, breathless point in space.