I didn’t see my kids as cute, and music affected me differently. Depression shows up uniquely for everyone.
Annoying Tunes
Depression isn’t just about feeling low. Music didn’t move me the way it used to when I was well. I used to listen to music every day and even played instruments myself. I’d tinker on the synth and mix tracks on my computer. It was my favorite hobby, but depression stole that from me because when I wasn’t feeling well, music annoyed me. I’d put on my favorite album and couldn’t finish it—it felt uncomfortable. I wasn’t sad; I was impatient, frustrated, and angry inside.
Slowed Down
The more I slept, the more tired I felt—I could never fully rest. I spoke slowly and moved slower too; even my coworkers noticed. It felt like a thick, transparent gel layer separated me from the world, dulling everything.
Pain and Risk
I had unexplained pains that wouldn’t go away—my back, head, and stomach hurt, and doctors couldn’t help. My heart and soul ached; life itself felt painful. To distract myself, I did reckless things. I drove wildly, made risky bets, and did every crazy thing people said I wouldn’t dare. When I snorted chili up my nose, I stopped just inches from a stone wall with screeching tires or climbed to the top of a lamp post—while others shouted from below—at least then I didn’t feel the pain.
Bites
I couldn’t eat much—I even made my favorite spinach gnocchi, and it turned my stomach. I felt I didn’t deserve delicious food because I was a burden to everyone.
No Romance
My fiancé tried to cheer me up with chocolate and a bouquet. The chocolate was the finest, rarest bonbon, and the flowers were my favorite—pale pink tulips. He smiled as he handed them to me, but I just stood there, expressionless, staring. I couldn’t even reach out to take them, let alone show a smile or joy. That’s when he started to take my illness seriously.
Ideas
At first, I thought I was in a creative slump. I worked as a graphic designer in a place where we drew all day, and I loved my job. The first sign was that I suddenly had no ideas—my creativity completely vanished. I didn’t want to draw, and I’d been doodling nonstop since I first picked up a pencil as a kid.
Desire
My libido dropped so low that I couldn’t even think about sex. There was a guy who was amazing in bed, and we’d been seeing each other for years—when single—because our chemistry was incredible. Before my illness, just thinking about his body would excite me. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want sex, but he didn’t believe me. He said if we started kissing, the desire would come. It didn’t. When he gently touched me and his lips met mine, I shivered and pushed him away because his touch felt unpleasant.
The Kids
I love my kids—they’re my whole world—but when I was really low, I didn’t see them as cute. They irritated me, and I didn’t want to be with them. Of course, I felt terrible guilt about this, but not just because of that—I felt guilty about everything. I didn’t want to live because I thought everything was my fault.
Giving Up
Things that used to matter deeply became meaningless. My favorite band came to Budapest for a concert—I’d never seen them live—and I didn’t go. My friends didn’t understand what was wrong but couldn’t convince me to come. The final season of my favorite show came out, and I didn’t watch it because I didn’t care. My birthday was coming up—I always threw huge parties—and everyone asked when and where, but I said no party this year because I couldn’t care less. I completely lost myself; it felt like my identity was held hostage by the illness.
Fun and Laughter
Nothing made me laugh; no one was funny. My friends and I watched my favorite stand-up comedian, and they were cracking up while I kept a straight face, even at the best jokes.
