Pants on fire. Monday, January 17, 2011.

“The worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves. We do this because we’re afraid.” – Richard Bach

My depression lies to me. Maybe yours does too.

My depression tells me, “You are no good at what you do,” when I have a whole list of commendations and awards.

My depression tells me, “You suck at your job,” when I got three promotions in two years and nothing but stellar reviews.

My depression tells me, “Your friends don’t care about you,” when they send me e-mails asking me out for coffee or dinner.

My depression tells me, “You’re a horrible daughter,” when it would be so much easier to walk away rather than take over my parents’ affairs – and I haven’t.

My depression tells me, “You’re a neglectful mother,” when my son is a young man who has turned out very well.

My depression tells me, “You’re a terrible wife,” when my husband reminded me last night how much he loves me.

My depression tells me, “You’re a terrible housekeeper,” when that is not the measure of a person. (At least I hope not.)

My depression tells me, “You’re ugly,” when I used to model.

My depression tells me, “You just waste time on Facebook,” when every day someone contacts me and thanks me for what I write and do, and that means so much to me.

My depression tells me, “You’re pathetic to be on medication,” when I tried to heal myself for many years and found the illness winning.

My depression tells me, “You’re worthless,” when my family, my job and my church would not be the same without me.

My depression tells me, “You don’t deserve to live,” when apparently that’s wrong as despite depression’s attempt to the contrary, I happen to still be here.

My depression likes to tell me lies. And when I feel vulnerable, I believe them. I think it’s time for me to tell my depression to shut the fuck up.

What do you think?