Depression, feminism and fat acceptance

(Image from Bea’s Harvour Counselling Service)

Trigger warning: talk of depression, brief mention of suicidal thoughts.

My name is Sonya. My favourite colour is navy blue. I am into wearing chunky, weigh-your-finger-down rings at the moment. I care for my disabled sister. I have depression.

You’ve probably met someone with depression. You probably are someone with depression. In my case (and in many cases), it is coupled with anxiety. It runs in the family, however much certain members don’t want to acknowledge it. I’ve dealt with it, on and off, for more than half my life, although when I was younger, I just thought that I sometimes got “sad”. I didn’t have a proper word for it.

I finally started seeing someone about it five years ago. It was one of the best decisions I have ever made. To talk to someone who gets it, without judgement, without a personal stake in what I’m talking about was amazing. I’m grateful.

My depression is very closely tied in with my self-esteem, my feelings of self-worth. Outwardly, I was a quiet, yet friendly girl, who appeared confident in herself, in her body, in her fashion choices. Inside? Turmoil.

Sometimes, I would take these feelings out on my ‘imperfect’ body. The body that didn’t look like everyone else’s, the body that took up too much space. I would binge eat. I would sit in the bath and imagine taking a razor blade to my wrists. I would figure, “What was the point of it all?”

When I wasn’t focusing on my body, I was focusing on my mind and my ability to make friends. I would castigate myself for not being quicker, smarter, for not getting better grades. I would question why I didn’t have more friends and assume that nobody liked me and the only reason people would even be near me is because they felt sorry for me.

Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t all the time. There were times when I was happy with myself, there were times I enjoyed my body and the space it took up. There were times when I was confident in my smarts and my ability to make friends.

But when that spectre hit, there was no talking me out of it.

I don’t know how long this might have gone on for. Forever? There was a turning point. A scary moment when I was driving my father’s car and seriously debating driving myself into a tree. I scared myself that day. I had to pull over, turn the car off, take my hands off the wheel and my foot off the accelerator pedal and sit there. I don’t know how long I did. But I decided: enough. It’s enough.

So, I started seeing a psychologist, I started learning coping mechanisms and started giving myself permission to own my feelings. Right around that time was when I discovered fat acceptance and immersed myself in feminism. It’s no coincidence that both of these movements have helped me immensely. Not just my physical health, but also my mental.

I still have my days. They might always be with me. But I now know how to cope with them. And I will always be grateful for that.