Muted

There's a difference between being depressed and having depression. One is a feeling that passes when circumstances change. The other is a condition that changes how you feel about everything, regardless of circumstances.

Depression is gray. Not black. Not dramatic. Just muted, like someone turned down the contrast on everything and walked the fuck away.

It comes and goes. It's not this constant weight. It's more like the weather. Some days are clear. Some days the storm rolls in and everything feels heavy and dull. You never know how long it'll last or when it'll lift. The full-blown episodes can stretch for weeks, and I've gotten pretty good at putting on a mask to hide it. I think I've become an expert at performing normal while everything inside feels dulled and distant. This isn't new — I can recall episodes going back to early high school, even middle school. The patterns were there long before I had words for them.

When it's here, it's not poetic. It's not Instagram-worthy melancholy or tortured artist cosplay. It's waking up and not understanding why anyone gives a damn about anything. It's staring in the mirror and feeling like you're looking at a stranger, not because you've changed so much, but because you can't remember who the fuck you were before everything went numb.

I don't do therapy. I don't take pills. I did therapy as a kid and it didn't work. And meds? I've watched people I care about go flat on antidepressants. Maybe they stopped feeling bad, but they stopped feeling much else too. That might be worth it for some, but for me, feeling nothing is worse than feeling low. At least when I'm depressed, I still know I'm in there somewhere. Muted, but still me.

The problem with doing it alone is that you end up carrying everything yourself. When you don't have professional help, the people in your life become the only safety net. And when you're deep in it, that feels like way too much fucking pressure to put on anyone. So you shut down. You cancel plans. You don't answer messages. You pull back because explaining it feels harder than carrying it. The mask becomes heavier when you're around people who care, because they can sense something's off even when you're trying to hide it. You tell yourself it's temporary, that you'll reach out when you feel better. But I didn't drift. I burned the fucking bridge and stood there wondering why no one would cross it anymore.

The worst period was when I first gave up alcohol. Without that numbing agent, everything hit at full force. Weeks where the mask felt impossibly heavy, where getting through a single conversation at work felt like running a marathon. I'd come home and collapse, exhausted from the performance of being okay. That's when I realized how long I'd been using alcohol to manage something I didn't even fully understand yet.

When I'm in the thick of it, food tastes bland. Music sounds flat. It's like being alive with everything slightly dulled, like someone put a thin layer of glass between you and the world. You go through the motions because that's what you're supposed to do, but nothing lands. And the worst part is not knowing if this time, it's forever. What if this is just who I am now? What if the version of me that felt joy at full volume is gone for fucking good?

There's nothing to do but watch.

But then something changes. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes all at once. And it's not some movie moment. It's smaller than that. Quieter.

It's realizing you've been humming along to a song without noticing. It's actually tasting your morning coffee instead of just drinking it. It's laughing at something dumb and not wondering if the laugh counted as real. A few months ago, I was buying groceries and actually looked at the cashier when they asked how my day was. For so long, everything had felt scripted. But suddenly, I meant it when I said "pretty good, thanks." Real connection felt possible again.

I remember texting my sister one day and asking if she wanted to go for a walk. Not because I had anything important to say, but because I wanted to hear her voice. We didn't talk about anything serious, just work stuff, family stuff, whether anyone in our family would ever figure out how Facebook works. Stupid, everyday bullshit that somehow felt good instead of exhausting. I got home and realized I hadn't been acting out the conversation. I'd actually had it.

These moments aren't big wins. They're clues. Signs that the volume is turning back up. Proof that the person who can feel things fully is still in there, under all the static.

Still, between episodes, I live in this weird in-between. Not depressed, but not exactly not-depressed. It's like holding your breath underwater — grateful for the break, but half-expecting the fall. I used to spend the good days looking over my shoulder. Grateful and scared. Like maybe if I laughed too loud, the universe would notice and take it all away again.

But I'm learning that waiting for the next crash just keeps me stuck in survival mode. It doesn't stop anything. It just steals the good while it's here.

I haven't had a full blown episode in months, though I still get dips. Days where the world isn't totally gray, just washed out. Like the colors are there, but a little faded. And the weird thing about those dips is that I can still feel, but everything's all messed up. Sometimes things hit me like a punch. A song will fuck me up out of nowhere, or I'll snap over something small. Other times, it's the opposite. Someone shares good news and I smile and say the right things, but inside? Nothing moves.

The strange thing is, I'm not even sure these dips are caused anymore. They feel different now — less like the familiar storm clouds gathering and more like just... life. Maybe this is what everyone deals with, the natural ups and downs that I'd been attributing to something bigger. Maybe after years of the real thing, I've gotten hypersensitive to any shift in mood, scanning for warning signs that aren't always there. Or maybe my brain has just learned new ways to process stress and emotion. Either way, they feel less like the storm rolling in and more like weather. Just part of how my brain works now.

Like last weekend at a wedding. Every part of me wanted to bail. But I went. And I'm fucking glad I did. Watching her get married filled me with so much joy. And then, out of nowhere, grief. She danced with her stepdad, and I thought about her dad and how he wasn't there to see it. Joy and sadness, all tangled together. Feeling everything at once instead of nothing at all.

That's the thing about these dips. They're messy. Unpredictable. But they're not the end. I used to think they were warning signs, the first rumbles of another storm. I'd pull back, brace for impact. But now I'm learning most of the time it's just a rough day. My brain working something out. A temporary cloud, not a flood.

Here's what I know. I'm still here. I'm still getting up when the bed feels like the safest place in the world. Still showing up when my body says no. Still putting on the mask when I need to, but learning when it's safe to take it off. Maybe surviving depression isn't this big dramatic battle. Maybe it's just choosing to show up, even when everything in you says don't. Choosing connection over isolation. Choosing to feel, even when it fucking hurts.

I don't know if the next storm will be easier. I don't know if I'll always recognize myself in the mirror.

The storm always passes. But so do the clear skies. I'm learning to live in both — not just survive them. To let the good days be good without fearing the fall, and to meet the bad ones without disappearing entirely behind the mask.

I don't have it all figured out. But I'm still here. Still trying. Always showing up.

And maybe that's what healing actually looks like. Not perfect. Not pretty. But real. And mine.