Too Depressed to Pee
I am a person of a few things, but pride is one of them. Pride and drive. They are two attributes of myself that I pride myself on. Defining aspects of who I am, or at least the aspects I like to define me.
And even as I sit here writing this, I feel myself fighting it. The pain of admitting this embarrassing moment is overwhelming. But then again, so is depression.
Recently, I began fighting one of the worst episodes of depression I have ever fought. My drive is fading away. My will to fight the voices in my head is fading, and those voices are starting to get the best of me, reminding me that they have always been there for me, especially when I felt no one else was. Telling me how much better everyone in my life is without me because I fail at everything. I am a useless piece of trash.
The only way I have been able to keep my head held high and fight off these wicked voices, is that I keep telling myself I hadn’t gotten to the “piss myself instead of getting up and walked 10 feet to a bathroom” level of depression I was in this time last year.
My depression this time last year was overwhelmingly difficult to deal with. I was a broken, shell of a person moving around and attempting to be ok, while coping with the hardest break-up of my life. But that wasn’t the big, send me over the cliff, moment that spiraled my depression out of control. No. Because this time last year, I came to the frightful realization that I was a non-binary transgender person.
And I didn’t want to be.
I fought myself for years. I tried to convince myself that I was just a little butch because I liked girls and guys and everything in between. I tried to convince myself my issues with my breasts were that they weren’t big enough, when in reality I was trying to hide them all nearly everyday.
But that world crashing realization hit me. There was no escaping. No matter how hard I tried not to be, it was who I was. And I hated it. I hated myself for being that way. Everything in me screamed and tore at who I was. The depression set in.
Everything in me, including my drive to do anything, was gone. I laid in my bed, watching my life tick by as I watched the hands of the clock tick away. My stomach growled at me, begging for food. But I didn’t have the will to get up. Right side of my body became painstakingly numb as I laid on it, but didn’t have the power to move.
And my bladder got mad. The urge to pee creeped up on me.
I held it as long as I could because I didn’t want to get up. No, I didn’t have the energy to get up.
“What’s it matter if they find me in a pool of my own blood or a pool of my own piss,” echoed in my mind. I remember this thought somehow comforting me, but looking back, I don’t see why. It would have been disgusting either way for whoever eventually found me.
But, that thought comforted me enough that I just let my bladder run free.
That’s right. My depression was so bad I didn’t have the will to get up and walk to a bathroom. I would have rather pissed my pants than get up.
And I laid there in a pool of my own piss for three hours, until I couldn’t take it anymore. The drying pee was giving me a rash and the smell a migraine. Eventually the pain got so bad that I pulled myself out of bed, pulled off my sheets and put them in the washing machine. I dragged myself up the stairs and to the bathtub with a new set of clothes. Crawled into the bathtub, and I stayed there crying for another hour until my father got home.
Then I pulled myself together, got out of the bath, and put my clothes in the wash as I put my sheets in the dryer.
I promised myself in that moment that I would never get to that level of depression again because it was downright embarrassing. But looking back, I’m not really embarrassed. I am more proud of myself for getting through it.
And now that I find myself slipping into a deep state of depression, I just keep trying to remind myself that I haven’t gotten that bad yet, so it won’t take the 7 months it took last time to drag myself out of this dark hole.
It gives me some hope to know that I haven’t sunk that deep yet.
Courtney is a southern born Queer writer and blogger trying to make a difference by sharing their story. As a mental health and LGBT advocate, I spend most of my time trying to share things about my journey to help others better cope or understand. Blogging on livingqueer.com and courtneysvoice.com