14-12-25 On Shame and Depression

I’ve never liked attention, I hate being watched, I hate my words and actions being analysed. I dread my birthday; I dread opening presents with my family on Christmas morning; I hate being looked at. I am an emotional replica of my dad; incredibly anxious and overthinking. Growing up, and even now, he would overanalyse my micro expressions, always worried that something was wrong. I do the same thing. We both know how irritating we are, and we try our best not to, yet I think it is ingrained into us. My dad is better now than he was when I was a child, still anxious, but more level-headed and apologetic when he knows he’s overstepped.

Despite his anxious nature, he was amazingly calm when I sat with him in a pub and told him I had been seeing my doctor for my mental health, that I hadn’t been doing well and I was going on antidepressants. He is incredibly supportive, and I greatly appreciate his presence in my life. Telling my dad and step-mum about my mental health was the right decision, and I encourage anyone who is struggling to tell someone they trust. They live in the same city as me and I know I can go and see them at any time if I need support, I’m very lucky. That being said, I underestimated how difficult it would be to be around people who know I’m struggling mentally. I hate attention and seeing them watch me with worried faces makes me regret saying anything at all.

I haven’t told my friends yet, because they’re all growing and making loads of new friends and doing impressive things. I’m ashamed of myself, honestly, because I haven’t achieved anything I wanted to by this time of my life. My mum asks me if I’m lonely, and I lie and say no, my dad asks me if I’ve been going out with friends, I lie and say yes. I am ashamed, and I don’t want to be pitied. The worst part is, I think they know the truth, because I’m fortunate enough to have a family that pays attention.