Severe Depression: A Personal Reflection

I have been trying to write this post for weeks. That is one of the cruelest parts of depression — it takes the words right out of you. You sit down to describe what is happening, and there is nothing there. Just static. Just exhaustion. Just the overwhelming urge to lie down and disappear for a while.

But I think it matters to name it. So here it is: I have severe depression. It is not the kind you romanticise. It is not poetic sadness or deep thoughts in candlelight. It is sleeping twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours a day because being awake hurts too much. It is waking up already tired, already heavy, already counting the hours until you can go back to sleep.

The kind of sleep that comes with severe depression is not restful. It is not the sleep of somebody catching up on their rest. It is an escape. It is the only time your brain stops yelling at you, the only time your body does not feel like it is filled with wet sand. You do not wake up refreshed. You wake up groggy, disoriented, and immediately hit by the realisation that you are still here and you have to do it all again.

The not-eating

The not-eating crept up on me. At first I just was not hungry. Then food started to feel like a chore — something I had to force myself to do, like brushing my teeth or showering. I would look at a plate of food and feel nothing. No desire, no anticipation, just the knowledge that I needed to eat and absolutely did not want to.

I started skipping meals without really noticing. Then skipping entire days. I would tell myself I would eat later, but later never came. The weight started dropping off. People started noticing. "Have you lost weight?" they would ask, and I would smile and say something vague, because how do you explain that you are starving yourself not out of any body image issue but simply because existing takes so much energy that chewing feels impossible?

There were days when I ate a single piece of toast and that counted as a victory. Days when I drank a smoothie and felt like I had accomplished something monumental. The irony is that not-eating makes the depression worse. Your brain cannot function without fuel. But depression convinces you that it does not matter anyway, so why bother?

The crying

The crying is its own kind of exhausting. I cry at everything and nothing. A song comes on and I am sobbing. Someone says something kind and I am sobbing. I drop a spoon and I am sobbing. The tears come without warning, without reason, without any sense of proportion.

Sometimes I cry until I cannot breathe. Sometimes I cry silently, tears streaming down my face while I stare at the ceiling, not making a sound. Sometimes I cry in the shower because at least there it is harder to tell where the water ends and I begin. And sometimes — the worst times — I want to cry but nothing comes. The tears are stuck somewhere deep and I am left with this pressure in my chest, this ache that has nowhere to go.

People say crying is a release. And it is, in a way. But when you cry every day, it stops being a release and starts being a constant state. You are not releasing tension — you are living in a permanent leak. The grief does not build up and then pour out. It is always there, always at the surface, always ready to spill over at the slightest nudge.

What I want you to understand

I am writing this not because I have figured it out, but because I need someone else who feels like this to know they are not alone. Severe depression is not wallowing. It is not a choice. It is not something you can think your way out of or "just try harder" to escape. It is a neurological and physiological condition that takes over your body and your mind and convinces you that everything is pointless.

I do not have a tidy ending for this post. I do not have five strategies that cured me or a list of coping skills that made it all better. What I have is this: I am still here. I am still trying. Some days that is all there is — the stubborn, inexplicable decision to keep going even when every part of you wants to stop.

The sleeping too much, the not-eating, the crying — these are not signs that I am failing at being a person. They are symptoms of an illness that is heavy and real and deserving of compassion. If you are experiencing any of this, please know that you are not weak. You are not broken. You are carrying something incredibly heavy, and you are still here.

And if you cannot carry it alone — and most of us cannot — please reach out. To a friend, a therapist, a crisis line, a support group. The reaching out is not a sign of defeat. It is a sign that you are still fighting.

When to seek help

If you are experiencing severe depression that is affecting your ability to eat, sleep, work, or take care of yourself, please talk to a professional. Depression is treatable, and you deserve support. A therapist, psychiatrist, or even a trusted doctor can help you find a way forward. If you are having thoughts of harming yourself or ending your life, please reach out to a crisis line immediately. You matter, and you do not have to go through this alone.

• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline — Call or text 988 (US)
• Crisis Text Line — Text HOME to 741741
• Samaritans — Call 116 123 (UK)
• International Association for Suicide Prevention — Find a crisis centre