it's okay, i'm a wizard

You don’t have to read this if you don’t want to. I know it’s kinda tl;dr, but it needs to be said. 

I’m taking a medical leave of absence for the rest of this semester.

I’m going in Tuesday to fill out the paperwork and everything. I was trying really really hard to hide just how bad my depression and anxiety had gotten, to hide just how tight its grasp on me was. Lately, it’s morphed into full out panic disorder. I can barely handle showering and getting dressed in the morning, much less leaving my room and functioning in the world like a normal human being. And until I get better, I certainly can’t maintain going to classes and seeing people on a day to day basis. Because for the past few weeks in particular, I was certain that my life wasn’t even worth living. That maybe I shouldn’t even bother. That I should just end it because everyone would be better off.

Now, some have been theorizing as to why I’ve continually cancelled meetings and flaked at showing up at important events and things. As to why it seems like I’m never on campus, that I’m always at home with my family. They’ve incorrectly placed the blame on an imagined alcohol habit and have led several school administrators to think this as well. The truth is that I haven’t had a drop since October, for several reasons. First among them is a mysterious stomach condition that I’ve been working with my doctor on diagnosing and treating (though at this point, it’s either gall bladder issues or an overproduction of stomach acid). Second is that I have severe depression and alcohol is a depressant, so it would be silly of me to be drinking. I also have insomnia issues and alcohol always keeps me up. And you’re really sad, sleep tends to be all you want to do. I’d never jeopardize mine like that. And the discovery that this is what people thought, that so many just assumed that I was abusing alcohol wildly, that that was the explanation people believed for why I was hiding myself away wounded me more deeply than anyone can understand. It hurt so much that there was a physical ache in my chest. If I had been alone when I was told this, it might have been the end of me. Luckily, I wasn’t.

But I don’t have to explain myself to anyone. I used to really think I did. In fact, I still think I do. Because I have rejection and abandonment issues and I’m terrified of letting people see in past my walls. I think that if people knew the real me, the sad, weak me, they would want to run far far away and never speak to me again. If people knew how often I spend hours alone, choking on tears with no known reason behind them, they would scoff at me. I care way too much what others think about me and so I’ve masked myself extremely well. Who is Bri? She’s funny and witty and she doesn’t give a fuck what anyone thinks. She never discusses anything serious and she’s always good for a laugh. But that’s just my mask. And like that ridiculous grim reaper mask from the Scream movie franchise you see everywhere on Halloween each year, there’s a face under it. And I need to take time to myself, to let that face be my primary one. Not the mask. 

Depression is what has been shaping all of my habits, starting around November and leading to now. Because though I’ve had it for far longer than that, that’s when it began to consume me. I’ve been so unhappy and so afraid of letting anyone know that. It’s destroyed me, really. I can’t bring myself to answer text messages, calls, emails, not even to check my voicemail. There’s about 15 messages on it, going back months. I swear it’s not that I’m intentionally ignoring you, and it’s not that I don’t want to answer these things; it’s that I just can’t. I don’t know why depression leaves me so paralyzed, I just know that it does. My anxiety is a similar story. Whenever I am finally able to bring myself to interact with others, I think about every syllable before I release it out of my mouth. Everything I say is planned out in a way that will protect me, that will keep the real me from being discovered. The real me is consumed with my illnesses and afraid of everything.

But I am not my diseases. I am not my depression, or my anxiety, or my panic disorder. But right now, unfortunately, they dictate a lot about how I act. And I’m sorry, to all of you who I’ve been neglecting. I’m so sorry for not being strong enough to be myself. I really hope you’ll forgive me for being a shitty friend, and that you’re still willing to be my friend once I’m able to shake the horrible grip of these feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, worthlessness. I don’t know if I’m worth the wait. For the time being, I certainly don’t think I am. But I have found a shred of hope that I’ll get better and I’m clinging to it.