how to be sad and alienate people (with your death wish)
What is it like being depressed? Nobody really asked me, but I feel like writing this down might be therapeutic (and also a nice change from staring into the screen and turning the water on the stove on and off because I can’t decide whether I want to make tomorrow’s lunch or not).
Being depressed is walking the street on a wonderful, cream-clouded, fresh and overall exhilarating Saturday afternoon, the kind of day that floods you with appreciation of its beauty— and feeling that the wave of emotion rolling in contains, alongside the expected joy and love for the city you live in, immense loneliness and a sense of devastation. For no reason. Despite the wonderful friend walking next to you and the fact that every passer-by wishes you a happy Sabbath.
It is spending almost a decade laughing, crying, learning and growing with someone you love more than anyone has ever loved even their own mother— and one day just deciding it’s over. Because you are thinking in absolutes, and if something is not working perfectly, it’s absolutely bad and not worth fighting for or working on. And once you’ve lived through that, and built a friendship with the person who used to be the air in your lungs, and found somebody new and amazing to be tentatively, but truly happy with— you wake up at night suffocating from exhausting dreams, wanting to run off to the jungle and die there, alone and promptly.
It is looking in the mirror, trying on a new hat or a cute shirt— and realizing that you are the ugliest thing you have ever seen, with an ass that leaves the room a full two minutes after you do, flab everywhere, a face that can only be fixed by a head transplant, which incidentally would also take care of your unimaginably horrible hair, and problematic teeth the likes of which you’d not wish on Hitler himself. Although he’d probably deserve them.
It is sitting at home of a night, eating instant mashed potatoes with mustard, because everything else requires cooking (not that there’s much else, because you haven’t been paying attention to supplies), and leaving the house to buy something is unthinkable— and you don’t really care about the taste that much anyway, it’s just that there seems to be a dull throb of emptiness within you, so it is perhaps a good idea to place something in it.
It is starting the day with sunshine, ice cream and general hilarity, continuing it with some healthy work and learning new things you care deeply about— and then coming home and despite all your genuine previous excitement all you can remember is nothing and grayness, and you can only cry, and even that barely. Four hours and countless old show episodes later, you haven’t moved from the spot, you’re wearing what you came home in, there’s an untouched mug of ice-cold tea next to you, you are foggy and have three hours of sleep left.
It is meeting a good old friend outside, hugging them happily, asking a hundred questions and insisting they call or come by— and then flipping the phone when the call comes in, making the sound go away while the phone just keeps on ringing. When they ask, you will of course say you didn’t see the call, because telling them you couldn’t find it in you to talk to them seems inappropriate.
It is tornado mood swings and a difference of eons between the way you are outside, among people, and the way you’re with yourself. And on a challenging day there will not be so much of a difference, because you will be among people and your camouflage will fall off and shatter on the floor, and you will not be able to conceal your desire to be away— at which point everyone in the social situation you happen to be in will be aghast and believe (with good reason) that you are a very unpleasant and sociopathic individual with whom they’d rather not deal. Or, worse, they’ll try to cheer you up.
It is catching yourself, time and time again, wishing you weren’t here, weren’t now, weren’t you or just weren’t alive. It is wanting to be alone when you’re with your loved ones and aching for their presence when it is impossible. It is the lack of motivation to do even those things that used to be the highlight of your days, and the paralyzing inability to make even the simplest choice (strawberry or vanilla? left or right? who knows? who cares?). It is continuing to live with dirt and messes despite hating everything that is not clean. It is sabotaging yourself in every way possible. It is consciously and at all times being self-deprecating and sarcastic and praying for a piano to fall from the skies and smash you every time someone tells you, sagely (always sagely), that sarcasm is bad for you and not a real solution.
It is asking, again and again, why me and how is this fair, and answering, again and again: because you are worthless and you hurt people and you deserve this and nothing but this.