Internal pain often feels like it has no bounds. It’s different than physical pain, and, I would argue, more miserable. Sometimes, it feels like my brain is on fire and I’m trapped in my own type of hell. Concealed by my smiley facade is so much anguish that I can’t put it into words. The pain is drawn out and unending. It’s not like a stomach bug where you know it will stop in a few days. The very hardware you use to rationalize to yourself that the pain will end is under attack, in flames. It’s malware. A cyberattack against the whole system that is the body. It’s like a demon is taking control of your actions, your words, and your mood.
Maybe it’s like having the life force sucked out of you by a dementor in Harry Potter. I’m nauseous and spinning because he’s lifted me off the air, and my mouth is agape, pulled forward by the force of his dark power. It’s not that I don’t love things about the world. I really enjoy many aspects of life, and I love my family deeply. It’s that I’m being tortured, and he’s willing me to give in. He’s drawing my energy away at a dreadfully slow and painful pace, doing enough to paralyze me and cause my body to twitch, but not enough to kill me. He’s not merciful. The dementor is there to watch the pain. Everything I’ve done so far has been an act of defensive self preservation, trying not to succumb to the mental demon that tells me to die.
In order to defend themselves from dementors, wizards and witches use one of the most powerful defensive charms—the Patronus. It is a “pure, protective magical concentration of happiness and hope,” and the recollection of what you care about deeply makes it effective. I have a safety box with nostalgia-evoking, loving photos of me as a kid with people I care about—my parents, grandparents brother, friends. It’s a time capsule that makes my wand light up and reminds me of my values. It gives me hope that no matter how much pain I am in right now, I can defeat this dementor that is depression.
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