I feel a weight lifted off me this morning. I’ve been chafing at being in residential treatment, I always have. Being confined to certain places and routes between them is an unwelcome situation in the worst of times, and barely tolerable in the best. The past two nights I’ve withdrawn from the people at the treatment center and stayed in bed as soon as we returned to the residence. I’ve been angry, not unduly, I don’t think, but pissed at my situation, and even more upset at myself for descending into it.

Where did I go wrong? Life was going swimmingly. My job was good, relationships strong, new cat was happy, and I was settling into my new apartment. It feels like I’ve woken up into a fever dream. Why am I here, what did I do wrong? The answer was unearthed in my DBT core group yesterday: a failure to communicate.

I avoid asking for help when help is needed. That is the concrete truth at why I’m in a residential treatment center. Because of this I’ve hurt family and friends who don’t feel trusted. It’s not due to a lack of trust. A hallmark of depression is a failure to communicate effectively, and the desire to not burden the people a depressive cares about. I wish I hadn’t let myself get to a headspace where self-harm was a possibility, and it’s not like I didn’t want to reach out. I just couldn’t do it.

Maybe that’s why I’m writing so much since I’ve been at this treatment center. Though I’m good at putting words into the air, I’ve always felt more comfortable putting them in written form. That could be the solution. Sending “I need help” messages via text or email. I have a code word to use with my sister when I feel especially down; I could create other code words for my parents and my friends.

I do know that I must continue to write. That chronicling my experience in managing depression adds some goodness to the word, and informs others that they are not alone in their fight.