Last year, my break-up with "D" left me utterly shattered. I mean, I had been diagnosed with depression at an early age (which I maintain is bullshit - being a teenager just sucks), but what hit me that winter was unlike anything I had ever felt. The crying, the lack of sleep, not eating for days at a time... that was a cake-walk compared to the overwhelming hopelessness and the feeling of being worth less than dirt. And shit got real when I started eyeing up the bottles of sleep-aids and pain-killers in my medicine cabinet and thinking "Yeah, that would be better than dealing with this".
And, of course, having never felt this way before, I couldn't imagine any one else had gone through it. So, I did the logical thing and bottled it all up. I'm sure my friends and family knew something was up: they're not stupid and I had become a virtual hermit. But given that there is a pretty negative stigma surrounding depression, I felt it was better not to share. I didn't want any one to think that I was crazy or - much worse in my opinion - weak. It was, I realize now, a big mistake because going through something like this on your own is too hard.
Any ways, I did what I thought would be best and went to the hospital to seek help. And I sort of got it - that is, I got a diagnosis and did next to nothing about it.
This is because I made a friend who was also going through a very rough time. It was nice to have to have some one who understood just how shitty depression can be. At the time, I truly believed we were helping each other, but I can see now that I really wasn't gleaning anything from the relationship at that time besides that I had a distraction. I had some one to comfort and help and throw myself completely into. And of course there was the sex, which was a nice bonus distraction (and a much needed ego-boost). And for a good long time, I had distracted myself so completely that I believed I was better.
But that was last winter, and I have a learned a few things since then.