Therapist Homework, again.

I tell myself that my depression isn’t real.
It’s laziness.
It’s wanting attention, and it’s drama.
I can just pick myself up at any time and become a real person again.
Do some laundry, work, walk, love my family.
Get over it.
I haven’t been able to do anything successfully in life, I hide behind this fiction that is depression.
I am so good at lying about how I feel.
I know all the right things to say to convince those around me that I have a mental illness.
People who really have depression are weak and boring.
But mine is special somehow, because I’m acting it out.
It’s not real.
It’s the ultimate theater, and sooner or later they’ll find out.
My suicide attempt was simply attention seeking.
If I really meant to do it I would have.
So here I am enjoying the life of Riley pretending to be sick.
I am no different than I was in grade school trying to stay home from school.
I am no different than I was in grade school.
Lazy, dirty, gross, and unmotivated.

I tell myself that my depression is real.
It’s a medical condition.
Nobody understand’s what I don’t want, but need.
I try time and time again to pick myself up, but the depression makes me fail.
Get a todo list, schedule stuff, plan ahead.
Accept it.
The depression has been hindering me all my life, the history is there, it’s real.
I am so good at lying about how I feel.
I know all the right things to say to convince those around me that I’m safe, stable.
People who don’t have depression don’t understand.
Mine is special, because it hasn’t been successfully treated.
It’s not my fault.
It’s everything in me through and through, and they’ll never figure it out.
I took the pills so easily, there was no hesitation.
I was frustrated only because it didn’t work.
So here I am working my ass off to stabilize and have quality of life.
I am no different than all the years behind me, it’s always been there.
I am no different than I was before.
Tired, ashamed, exhausted and weak.