It took me a long time after graduating from High School to admit that I had been living with depression for much of the time. I had undergone a religious form of conversion therapy that obviously did not succeed at its original intent but instead produced a level of self-loathing that no human should ever endure – it eliminated my will to live.
With college I began to recognize the good in the world and have hope for better days. Depression-free. Conversion therapy and religious propaganda was behind me, and I had emerged unscathed. Or so I hoped.
Last year I started developing a relationship with a kind young man who lived several hours away. We were both able to visit several times over long weekends where we would spend entire days together. These weekends left me feeling elated, yet revealed an underlying issue. Each time I visited him, I was plagued with chronic nausea and fatigue for the entire duration of the visit. Nerves, I guess.
Things ended with time and distance and stayed that way until a couple of months later when we started talking again. Like before, we visited each other and my nausea came right back. It was accompanied by an extreme lack of appetite and lack of enthusiasm for anything; I just wanted to lie in bed. Once again, things ended naturally with time and distance.
This weekend I had the pleasure of being able to visit Nathan. (We met two months ago while I was attending a rave in Eugene.) He means a lot to me and I’m happy to say we are growing closer. Despite our close relationship, my entire time was once again overshadowed by an underlying fatigue and nausea that would not go away. The only remedy was to take a small hit of THC, which the lovely land of Oregon has made legal. With that, my woes were behind me and I returned to being a normal human being until it eventually wore off and this dark inky feeling crept back into my body and reminded me that I am not in control.
After the weekend, I was left feeling rejuvenated and excited for the future. However, I cannot ignore the monster inside of me that refuses to identify itself or make clear its intentions.
There is something greater going on. My depression has returned two fold. Is this the product of a deeper internalized homophobia? I’m hurting, I’m in pain, and I’m confused. My life is looking up in many ways yet I can’t get over this mental fog that wants to leave me in bed all day. This is not sustainable. I cannot continue to run to the bathroom and sob each work day for god-knows-why. I cannot continue to fight off this wet, cold, and lonesome form that clings to the bottom of my stomach and pulls me into the ground. I cannot continue.
For anyone who reads this and gets all agitated about my use of marijuana I give you this: If getting high means returning me to a normal state of existence, I’ll take it. It is not a permanent fix, but it will get me by for now.