A Picture’s Worth 1,000 Words

Can you tell by looking at me that I’m depressed?

You see this smile, my accolades, the cap and gown. I work hard, dress nicely, I’m kind and composed.

Can you see behind the mask that I can’t bring myself to shower some days? That I used to be a passionate athlete and now, as much as I want to I don’t exercise anymore? That many days I lay on the couch, drowning in self-loathing? That sometimes I am so overwhelmed and consumed by darkness that I can’t move?

I hate myself in these moments.

I’m so good at hiding it though. This facade is my identity.

I have depression. I feel depressed.

You’re just lazy.

The criticism reverberates through my being. The self-loathing thickens.

It’s okay to be anxious, you’re just stressed. But depression? You’re just being weak, you’re not trying hard enough. We’re all tired.

I’m embarrassed for feeling this way.

You’ve had such a good life though. You are so privileged and fortunate. You have no reason to be sad. So many people are worse-off than you.

I feel ashamed.

I can’t help it though. I have depression. Sometimes I feel so low.

But you look so happy.

Is a picture really worth a thousand words?