The High Cost of Feeling Nothing

How do you know you’re depressed when your life looks incredible from the outside?

I mean, I score anywhere between a 14 and a 23 on the PHQ-9 most years. I show up to spaces I don’t want to be in, just to look like a normal human being. I eat really, really slowly—because, wait, is that cinnamon? Anything to feel something I suppose.

When I’m not depressed - Photo By Rok

As someone who is high-functioning with PDD, I think I’m always searching for the natural highs in life, the ones that seem to come so easily to others. Is that just me, or is it all of us? I don’t feel particularly excited about anything most of the time not to say I’m not enjoying my time. But it must be nice to feel a rush of joy, real anticipation or even just that quiet, deep contentment people talk about all the time? I’m only messing. I feel that too, sometimes.

I feel like that’s why I’m always chasing. Like it’s so expensive—these trips, these appointments, these experiences. Not because I want luxury but because I want to feel. Because I need to do something. It’s a coping mechanism, right?

I’m sitting in a dark room, not by choice this time, I have no electricity. I’m in bed thinking about all this. But honestly, it’s been for as long as I can remember. Maybe I just don’t have enough dopamine or serotonin. Maybe I’ve burned through whatever reserves I had with all the shit I’ve put my body through over the years.

What I do know is that I’m not alone in this. More and more people are talking about it. And yet, I rarely do. My friends tell me about their depression, how they feel and I don’t want to add to it you know. It’s rare that I’d ever admit to feeling low. But it’s there. A calculated type of depression because I hate looking helpless and not put together. 

I remember when I lived in Australia, I structured my entire life around depression. I worked just enough, two or three days a week, so I could afford to spend the rest of the week in bed, away from people, away from having to perform. That way, when I did show up, I could be the bubbly version of myself that everyone loves. And I am that person.. But I also know it’s the easiest way for me to function, to have long stretches of time where I don’t have to be “on,” where I can just exist.

It kind of makes me laugh how expensive depression is. I spend about a quarter of the year away, constantly travelling, always going somewhere. I’ve been to over 70 countries—not that I haven’t enjoyed it. I have. I’ve had the most incredible experiences, met amazing people, eaten some of the best food in the world.

But if I’m constantly chasing, what does that say?

And I travel alone—I love it because I can just be myself. Where zoning out at the dinner table isn’t rude, it’s just solitude. Where you can wander the streets for hours, listening to the same song on repeat for the 60th time or stay in bed for two days without having to explain why. Where you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want, without anyone judging you. And I love those small kind interactions with people and to maybe, never see them again. 

Maybe it’s not the healthiest way to deal with things but somehow it works for me. I’ve figured out this strange balance, a life filled with incredible highs and some pretty extreme lows. And in its own way, it functions. 

You know, there’s no real cure for depression or anxiety. I don’t remember feeling anxious much as a kid but I do remember feeling depressed. The first time I ever felt really anxious, the first time I had a full-blown panic attack was when I was about 19 or 20, traveling in Cambodia. And honestly, it was probably my own fault. I ate an entire pizza laced with weed, not realising just how strong it would be. The high was overwhelming, and it triggered something in me, anxiety on a level I’d never felt before.

After that, I didn’t have another panic attack for a while. But then I found myself in a very intense relationship and everything changed. I told my partner I was moving back to London, leaving Vietnam behind. What had been a two-hour flight between us was about to become 13 hours  and the weight of that decision set off something in my nervous system that I just couldn’t regulate. My emotions went into overdrive and suddenly, I was having constant panic attacks.

It got so bad that even drinking two or three drinks would send me into hallucinations. My body just stopped regulating itself. I broke out in hives. I was overwhelmed with stress. At the time, I was 21, running my own business, navigating a relationship that consumed me and trying to hold everything together. It was one of the most stressful periods of my life—yet, at the same time, I was having some of the most fun I’d ever had. And I do think about whether I’d change any of that. 

That contrast—living life at full speed but internally just trying to survive—was ridiculously exhausting.

And for some reason, at 21 I just couldn’t picture life past 22. It was like the future didn’t exist for me. I had no real vision of where I was going, what I wanted or what came next. All I knew was that following my partner at the time wasn’t enough. I had to reset, to start over in London, even though I had no idea what that would look like.

And maybe that’s just how it goes, sometimes you don’t have a clear path forward. You just know you can’t stay where you are.

I guess it goes back to that age-old saying, you never really know what people are going through. From the outside, through socials and everyday life, it’s easy to assume people are living their best life. But that’s not always the case.

Especially for people like me, high-functioning, ambitious, determined to do something with my life regardless of how I feel inside, that reality can be hard to sit with. It’s tough to process. I can spend hours listening to other people talk about their depression and they should. They should share, because it’s important to know you’re not alone.

But it’s something I’ve never really practiced myself.

Even writing this now, I feel a kind of vulnerability that doesn’t sit so well with me. In conversations, I might mention it briefly, in passing, but I’ve always been deeply guarded when it comes to things like this. Maybe there’s a part of me that still feels shame—shame that I have to structure my life in a certain way just to cope. 

And honestly, I don’t know how sustainable it is in the long run.

But I do feel like I manage. I exercise, talk to my therapist, I have a really fun pop up called Roti Mami, I surround myself with better friends and being around people who make me feel lighter—it’s helped a lot. I may not casually say, Hey, I’m depressed and this is how I feel, but even just talking about the harder moments has made a difference.

Of course, it scares me to slow down. Because then I have to face myself more and that’s terrifying. But maybe that’s part of it. Part of the scary kind of growth that actually moves me forward.

Also don’t be alarmed, I’m okay.

The track I’ll leave you with today is My One by Mereba.

Love,

Rez x