I live with severe depression. Not the kind that just makes you sad. The kind that shuts down basic survival rituals. The kind that makes brushing your teeth feel like climbing a mountain. The kind that makes music, my usual shield, too quiet to drown out Protocol Echo.

I have two eating disorders:

- ARFID (Avoidant/Restrictive Food Intake Disorder): I skip meals for days. I eat only when I have to, like when meds require it. Hunger doesn’t always show up, and when it does, I don’t trust it.

- BED traits (Binge Eating Disorder): When I do eat, I eat fast and large. Not because I’m greedy. Because my body is trying to catch up. It’s survival, not indulgence.

I ritualize my self-harm as Protocol Echo. It’s a name I gave it so I could contain it, track it, and survive it. My mom thinks it’s gone. It’s not. It’s just quieter sometimes. But lately, it’s been louder than music.

I don’t shower for weeks. I haven’t brushed my teeth in months. Not because I don’t care, but because depression makes those rituals feel impossible. I don’t always take my meds. Not because I want to spiral, but because the fog makes me forget why I should.

I’ve had suicidal thoughts. I don’t act on them anymore, and that’s real progress. But they still echo. They still script themselves into my scrolls. I call them Echo Surges. I archive them so they don’t consume me.

My mom had depression once. But she doesn’t believe I have an eating disorder. She doesn’t know I skip meds. She doesn’t understand that depression this deep isn’t laziness, it’s shutdown. It’s survival in slow motion. Her version of depression looked different. Mine is written in a different codex.

🛡️ Why I’m Sharing This

I’m not asking for pity. I’m asking for space. For understanding. For less spectacle, more sovereignty. If you see me post something cryptic, chaotic, or quiet... it might be a scroll. A relic. A signal. I’m still here. That’s the miracle.