Mel-ancholy.

I decided back in December that this year was going to be my year; I was going to look after myself and get my life together before I shared it with anyone else.  I joined a reading challenge, started a vlog, and actually went out on a Saturday night for the first time in ages, all in an effort to increase my confidence so that I could love myself and make it easier for someone to love me.  And it worked...temporarily.  Every time I finished a book, I'd feel like my mind had been opened a little bit more.  I signed off each vlog post exhilarated and exhausted, thrilled that people would finally hear me sing.  I woke up the morning after my night out, happily hung over.  But within an hour of achieving each of these triumphs, I was in my kitchen, staring out the window wondering what the hell I was doing in a world in which I had no purpose.  I'd stand before that window for hours as a de-motivation tape played on an endless reel in my head.  You're a terrible mother.  You've screwed up your life and everyone else's.  You've made a fool of yourself.  Why were you born?
That tape had been playing since my early teens, and the volume gradually increased until two Wednesdays ago, when a conversation with my mother brought it to an ear-splitting level and I could take no more.  The resultant torrent of blubbering gibberish may have taken a year off my poor mother's life, but it also motivated her into making an appointment to do what I had been putting off for half of mine; seeking help.  I went to my doctor on Friday afternoon and am now finally treating the source of most of my problems.  I'd liken this treatment to cleaning a cut knee and putting Bettadine on it, rather than just slapping on a band aid; it stings, even makes me a little nauseous, but I can already feel the wound starting to heal.  It'll be a while before it scabs over, and when it does I'll more than likely want to pick at it occasionally, but the important thing for now is dressing it before infection sets in, and I think I've done that.  Depression is a very personal topic, some might even consider it taboo, but the reason I wrote about it in this post was because it shouldn't be.  If you're feeling torn apart, tell someone and start repairing yourself, don't smile and deny the fissure exists.