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Can Positive Thinking Alleviate Depression?

I realized that I can no longer pretend that I am mentally healthy. As I scrolled through Instagram, my tears blurring my vision, I noticed a campaign meant to empower women, with the hashtag "finding joy." The first day of the challenge required a selfie in which the person holds a piece of paper on which the words "I am enough" are written.
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I am a quote fiend. Finding, saving, used as screen savers; I scour the Internet in search of inspirational captions. Ironically though, I hate any which imply that being happy is as easy as having a positive outlook.

"Happy people are fun to be with -- be one!" Detest.

"Always end the day with a positive thought. No matter how hard things were, tomorrow's a fresh opportunity to make them better." Get me a bucket.

As I've thrashed my way through periods in my life where turbulent waters of sadness allowed me seconds to gasp for air before tidal waves of grief yanked me back under, being told or reading that happiness is as easy as visualizing it makes me further realize how little society comprehends the all-encompassing mental and physical symptoms of anxiety and depression.

This year has revealed to me that it is not normal to dread getting out of bed every single day for the past 30 years. When I was sharing with an acquaintance this particular aspect of my day, more specifically that doctors, dentists, or hair appointments cause me such distress that I have to schedule these late enough in the day to allow for the now anticipated terror on the day of said appointments to allow for hours of self-dialogue before I am able to set foot on the floor - my acquaintance nonchalantly said, "I have never felt that way a day in my life. I wake up in the morning and can't wait to get started." Her words made me realize that once again, what I have assumed was normal human angst, was in fact, yet another manifestation of my mental illness.

As I placed my jaw back into its rightful mandibular location, I asked her to clarify, "So you're never too overwhelmed or afraid to get out from under the covers?"

"No," she replied. "Even on the days when my endometriosis is flaring up, I'm all, 'I need to get up. I've been in bed long enough.'" Granted this Mary Sunshine may be an exaggerated version of the average morning person, but to even realize that what I felt every single day was not normal, confirmed once again that the diagnosis I received last November could still not be denied.

Because despite my "team" of health professionals begging me to stay on my medications and to continue with my talk-therapy, part of me always believes that surely these feelings which have plunged me so low at times that I've purposefully tried to halt living completely, are surely experienced by everyone. I'm slowly learning that this is not the case, and in doing so, I'm also realizing that society understands depression as much as I understand mental health.

Being told to "go for a walk when you feel sad" or "think happy thoughts" is a simplistic response to a profoundly complex disorder, which, believe me, if it was as easy as putting on my running shoes, I would not regularly contemplate the freedom which would accompany each drop of blood as it drained from my slashed wrists.

This past week, however, as I was sinking like a boulder due to inevitable stressors in my life; once again swallowing bile as anxiety bubbled up into an erupting volcano the proportions of which was so colossal -- the only way to save innocent bystanders from the scorching lava oozing towards them was to speak out about my mental illness once and for all. Although my writing has been a source of relief, I have been able to keep the magnitude of my depression and the co-morbidities which accompany it, not really a secret, but a problem that "I can handle."

This past week, as I sobbed for hours in my bed while my family slept, I realized that I can no longer pretend that I am mentally healthy. As I scrolled through Instagram, my tears blurring my vision, I noticed a campaign meant to empower women, with the hashtag "finding joy." The first day of the challenge required a selfie in which the person holds a piece of paper on which the words "I am enough" are written. And as I read several bios and saw that many of these ladies are also trying to recover from anxiety and depression, and are finding joy by accepting who they are by owning the caption "I am enough," I wondered if I was enough.

As I pulled out my marker, wrote down the phrase, held up the white piece of paper on which the words "I am enough" were written in large, capital, black letters; although I didn't believe that this would make me feel better; although I still thought that joy was unachievable despite the saying, "Don't worry, be happy," I felt that participating in a challenge that will force me to take note of my positive qualities, even if only for the minute it takes to write them out, it's a minute in which my pain is not wrapped around my throat.

I'll let you know in 30 days if I'm a convert.

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