fifteen

because here’s the thing about depression…

it’s fucked up.

it’s fucked up in many, many ways.  tonight in particular, it’s because it tells you you’re not entitled to call yourself depressed because you’ve never been diagnosed or medicated for it.  it adds to the fuckery by telling you to get your shit together, because you’re not depressed.  you’re just a whiny little shit with no friends who needs to be less like how she is and more like a likable human.  and yeah, maybe there’s some truth to that.

but… no. no, there’s no truth to that.  there is nothing wrong with who i am or how i live.  i’m a good person.  i don’t litter, i pay my taxes, i use turn signals.  i drop my change in the little red buckets are christmastime, and i don’t push my political or religious agendas on strangers.  i’m not a burden to my family or friends or society at large.  i am valid.  i am a person.  i belong here.

social media upsets me.  it shows me a huge, active world that i don’t feel entitled to.  but it’s my only outlet.  i can see without being seen, the introvert’s dream.  so i open each app and close it almost immediately, because it’s the same stuff i saw 10 minutes ago.  it’s the same world, still living and breathing without me.

i am not entitled to this feeling.  there is nothing wrong with me.  this misery, temporary as it may be, is my own doing.  i’m not entitled to ask for help, because what help could someone possibly give me?

you should get out more.

put yourself forward.

be more social.

maybe if you actually, ya know, TRIED to be sociable, people would like you.

it doesn’t fucking work that way, but you don’t care.  you feel down sometimes, but you call up a friend and get out of the house and everything’s fine, and you’re sure that if i just did exactly what you do, i’ll be fixed, too.

i am not you, and that is your problem with me.

i went to a movie by myself this weekend.  it was a freak impulse, and i don’t have freak impulses.  i don’t regret it.  the theater was empty, the film wasn’t terrible, and i didn’t have to share my contraband junk food with anyone.  but as i’m driving home, that asshole who lives in my brain starts talking.  i hate it when this particular asshole starts talking, because he doesn’t know when to shut up, and i don’t know when to stop listening.

glad you had fun, kid.  this is good practice for that life of loneliness you’re making such a fine build-up to.  next week, we’ll try eating at a restaurant alone.

and that was it.  a perfectly good day, a perfectly good weekend ruined.

i’m not suicidal; let’s just get that out of the way now.  life scares me, but death scares me more, and even in my darkest days, i know i’m not done here.  i’m still optimistic enough to think there’s some great good in the world still left to be done, and that it’s up to me to do it.  but how the fuck am i supposed to save the world when i can’t manage to get out of bed?  seriously, i’m asking.

i feel better having written this.  nothing is fixed, but the words are out of me.  it’s a good start.  there is every chance i’ll wake up in a few hours and the world will make sense again.  it’s happened before.  there’s an equally good chance that i’ll wake up in a few hours discouraged, with a raging headache, and more tired than i was before i went to sleep.  that’s happened before, too.

the point is that i will wake up.  i will see another sunrise and another sunset and i will endure the thousand little annoyances and miracles that make up my everyday life.  i will love and hate everything in its turn.  i will be loved and hated, and usually by the same people.

i am better than this.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s