A Letter For Those Who Are Scared to Live Alone with Depression

Dear Annie,

I know that you’re terrified to live on your own with depression. I know that you don’t even feel capable of taking care of yourself. I know that you doubt your ability to cook food, your ability to do your laundry everyday, to get yourself to work.

I know you’re worried that there will be days that you will stay in bed all day and nobody will notice.

I know that you worry that nobody will notice if you’re not okay. That you could really be struggling, and even not be doing your job, and nobody would know. And it’s true. It is definitely possible that people might not notice if you’re not okay. But that is always true. But you can help them notice. Even though you live alone, you can make friends who you see regularly. And most importantly, be honest with people when you are struggling or need help. Even friends/family who don’t live nearby can be helpful if you just text them and let them know you’re struggling.

Here’s what you don’t know: a year from now, you will have lived on your own for a year, and it will have been one of the best years of your life. Yes, it will be hard. There will be days when you eat mac n’ cheese for dinner at 4pm. There will be nights when you stay up past midnight binge-watching shows because you don’t have any other plans. There will be days when you leave dishes in the sink. 

But there will also be many, many days and moments of your creation. Days when you get to decide how you spend your time. Days when you read your favorite books for hours, beautiful sunsets outside your windows, and moments when you abandon your plans to go play in the snow.

You don’t have to be perfect. You will do your best. And sometimes, you won’t even do your best, you will do enough. It might not look like the perfectly organized houses and meal-prepped lunches you see on Instagram, but it will work for you. 

One of the most exciting things about living alone is learning what matters to you. You will quickly learn when you need to eat, and you will learn how to cook the foods you need to eat. You will learn how to recognize when you won’t be able to cook dinner, and instead you will order out. You will learn that maybe you’re okay with leaving dishes in the sink overnight, but you like the counters clean. Maybe you’ll learn that you do your best work at 5 am and you’ll get up early everyday.

The plants that share my apartment

For some people, living alone doesn’t work for them. But it might work for you, don’t dismiss it because you’re scared. You will learn that you are stronger than you thought. That you are capable of doing what you need and want to do, and that its okay if you don’t do everything. I hope that you’re able to let go of some of your concerns and enjoy life on your own! 

When My Therapist Gaslit Me Because of My Chronic Illness

I was gaslit by many people when I became sick with a chronic illness. Doctors told me I was making it up. Friends told me it couldn’t be that bad. Professors told me I wasn’t trying hard enough. The doctors were beyond frustrating. The fear I felt everytime I left their offices that I might have to live with this pain forever. And the feeling of being totally alone.

But the worst one for me was gaslighting by my therapist. After a while, I had become used to it from others, and it stopped surprising me. But I hadn’t been to therapy, so I had no idea what to expect. For a year and a half, I met with my therapist weekly. I thought that seeing her would help me deal with being sick. I thought at the very least it would prove to my doctors that I was working to improve my mental health. But what I didn’t expect was how completely it could harm me.

My therapist didn’t believe I had a chronic illness. When she first told me this, I was excited. And relieved. Maybe that would mean it wouldn’t last. I believed her when she told me that therapy could help improve my mental health and make me feel better.

But that isn’t what happened. Instead, week after week she would call me lazy and tell me I needed to work harder. She would tell me I wasn’t strong enough, that I clearly was too weak to handle anything real. That I didn’t belong at my college if I couldn’t keep up with the work.

At first, I knew she was wrong. But after weeks of this, I started to believe her. After all, she was the mental health expert. And more than anything, I wanted to believe her. By then, doctors had ruled out most other illnesses, so I was convinced it must be depression. I knew nothing about depression, so I was eager to believe that working harder could make me better.

So I did listen to her. I made myself sick staying up long after I was even functioning just to get work done. I would often walk into class crying from pain on the way there, but I told myself to get over it. When I was tempted to skip class, I reminded myself that I had to do it or I was too weak to be there. When I wanted to rest, I remembered her voice telling me that everyone is tired. When I thought about talking with friends about how I was struggling, I remembered that even medical professionals thought this was only because I wasn’t strong enough.

Once, I complained to her about how frustrating it was being home and struggling to help cook because my fingers hurt so much. I told her how much I feared becoming a burden to my family and the people I love. And she responded, “my four year old can cook dinner. He’s more helpful than you are.”

Cutting vegetables- a painful task that I was shamed for struggling with

I went to a therapist in hopes of finding someone I could talk to about these challenges, a place where I could feel safe. A place where I wouldn’t be judged for talking about struggles that nobody else could see or understand.

But instead, I found myself being judged constantly. Anything I told her would be held against me. Instead of finding any type of healing, I found myself becoming more and more broken. I told her my fears and frustrations that this illness was ruining my life, and instead of reassuring me, she confirmed my fears, and told me that it absolutely was, and it was my fault. I felt hopelessly lonely. The one thing that could’ve helped me feel better wasn’t working, and I truly believed it was because I wasn’t working hard enough.

Perhaps worst of all, she made me feel ashamed of my illness. Like it was a personal fault of mine, and that not getting better was a personal weakness. She blamed me for not getting better fast enough.

Since then, I hesitate to talk about my illness. I started a new job a year ago, and I haven’t told my boss about my illness. Friends ask me why, and all I can think about is her voice. Confirming my fears that my illness is a weakness that I should be ashamed of, that people will think less of me because of my illness. When I think about asking for extra time on an assignment, or to change my schedule, I can’t help but feel that I just need to work harder.

I’ve told very few people about this experience. Mostly because therapy isn’t something we talk about. And because I truly believe most therapists are amazing and doing their best to help people. But sometimes, even well-intentioned therapists can end up hurting us. I’m grateful for many incredible doctors and therapists I’ve worked with, but I still think this is an important story to share. I wish that I had known that it was okay to see a different therapist. That deciding to not work with her didn’t mean I was giving up on getting better. I wish that I had believed myself no matter who doubted me. I hope that nobody else has to have such an experience. But if you do, try to remember it isn’t your fault. Remember that nobody else knows you better than you know yourself, and that there are always other options, other people who will support you.