Listen Here, Motherf—er: I’m Not Indulging

Advocating for myself in the face of depression’s darkness

I’ve worked hard to make some solid psychological progress since early September following a hospital stay.

But a hellish toothache over the last few days has me on my back foot. I’m now talking negatively to myself and wrestling with dark thoughts.

Scrolling through my notes today, I found the entry below from almost one year ago, which I wrote as a letter to my family not too long before my first ketamine therapy session.

Interestingly, it conveys much of what I’m struggling with now, and it felt like the right time to share.

The Devil Wears a Person Suit

My Loves,

I’m just not a good human.

I wish I could explain how everything I do is tainted. The level at which I harm. The blackness of my soul.

I hurt everyone; saddle them with sadness. Especially those I care about most.

I cause pain. I connect with no one. I complicate.

Time and again, I’ve proven myself to be a poor excuse for a son, father, spouse, friend, and dog owner. A human.

I do love deeply. I think I have a conscience. 

But my darkness is consuming. Only I know myself. And I am the devil.

I can’t pretend I’m human. I can’t put on my mask, smile, and deceive my way through the day.

I deserve death.

You have done so much to help, and I appreciate your sacrifice. You are all wonderful, loving, and compassionate humans.

There is nothing you could have said or done. None of this is your fault.

There are many things to mourn in life; my death should not be one.

This is what I deserve for my sins. This is karma. This is The Universe’s retribution.

Love is all there is.

Derek

Dialogues with Darkness

Twelve months later, I’m equipped with mindfulness tools that help me recognize when depression—not Derek—is speaking.

Still, during challenging times like now, it screams into my subconscious, demanding not just to be heard but indulged.  

It wants me to curl up into a ball, gnash my teeth, and drown in grief.

Instead, I stop running from it.

I turn, smile, and embrace it.

I ask what it needs; what it wants to show me.

Then, I compassionately send it on its way.

And I breathe.

Again.