Depressive episodes aren’t pretty or easy to recover from. I convince myself that partners are better off not knowing the extent of my condition.
Reaching out to friends and loved ones makes me feel like a burden, so I end up in a negative mental whirlpool that makes me emotionally inaccessible.
The stigma of having a mental illness characterizes the diagnosed as perpetually weak and unpleasant to befriend.
People who know only a stereotype of mental illness tend to believe that people with depression are supposed to outwardly look and act sad all the time (think your “middle school emo kid” archetype).
I would like to know that he isn’t sleeping with anyone else and won’t be sleeping with anyone else while we are sleeping together.
Should I have the “defining the relationship” conversation with him or should I wait and allow things to evolve more?
One of my best friends used to think my sex life was a sign I was “cured,” but on another occasion found that maintaining a sex life was selfish and undeserved of someone who should focus solely on some sort of magical recovery.
We should never feel guilty for wanting sex or whatever makes us feel normal again while we’re coping.
Sometimes sex is the one place where I feel like myself, just because it’s where I can’t compare myself with anyone else.
That’s the kind of plain understanding I look for in relationships now: a mutual respect for my grief-related depression and anxiety.
Even as you read this, it may be strange to register that the smiling mug floating above these paragraphs is of a person coping with long-term depression.