I thought the unceasing self-loathing was normal. I’d grown accustomed to fighting with myself in my own head. Half of my brain said, “You’re no good. You’ll never do it.” Half of my brain said, “Please stop. I’m going to anyway. If you would just be quiet, we could at least try.” None of my brain felt well enough to get angry, to be sad, to feel much of anything at all. But this was normal. Having to convince myself that everyone didn’t hate me was normal. Struggling to do the basic human things like showering, sleeping, going to work, and hanging out with friends outside of my house was normal.
I had been semi-functional for a year this way, but I felt myself, my entire body, becoming tired of my own shit. When the thought of death became a daily source of relief, I had no choice but to start asking myself, “Is this as good as it gets? Is this how it’s going to be now?” Feeling as though life was lived through a glass wall surrounding my body, I did the most radical thing I could think to do: I decided to go see a doctor.