Things Don't Make Sense

The thing with depression is that you never realize you're getting there until you're in it. It's never an overnight turn of events (though that may be the trigger) but it's that moment when your brain is screaming at you with white noise at 3am in the morning and tears are streaming down your face and breathing becomes a problem that you hit the brakes and think to yourself, "Oh god, I'm in depression."

Of course that may be just me.

No one ever likes talking about depression because it's not a fun topic. No one would expect me to have depression either, because I'm not exactly unfamiliar with unicorns and rainbows and preppy bright colors. I wouldn't have thought I'd ever be here again. I thought depression was just something that you can get over once and build an immunity to, like chickenpox.

There is nothing strong about being in depression. People might discuss this whole concept in a classroom or in a group and someone might say, "Oh, you must be so strong to have gone through depression." It's nothing to be proud of. It's not a shining success to put on your resumé. It wasn't a conscious effort to cry myself to sleep and wake up before the sky grows light and throw on some clothes to go for classes in the cold. It was just routine. It allowed my mind to be on autopilot. It allowed myself to grab the cup of coffee and chug it so I can pretend that the migraine spreading through my skull was a side effect of the coffee, not the crushing stress of being a fuck-up.

In the same way that a homosexual may say, "I may not want to fuck that person, but I can still tell that the person is attractive.", I can still decide that today is a beautiful cool fall day, with the warm sun shining through the sparse clouds and the chilly wind calmly blowing into my hair to give it that attractive bouncy air. This does not mean that suddenly my life is all glitter and happiness and everything-in-the-world-is-right.

Often I wonder if I'm just too weak to make it, or if the world is cruel and we all living like this. If I am weak, then what will be the end of me? If the world is cruel, then what will be the end of us?

I find no reason to hide my depression now, possibly because I'm under the delusion that I'm so far away nothing will hurt me (though was that not one of the reasons why I'm here) and possibly because even American air smells of LIBERTY LIBERTY I DO WHAT I WANT I AM NOT SORRY FOR IT. The constant upkeep of my moods are rendered useless when I never see the people who even matter to me. I have no need to pretend to be keeping myself together when I don't even know where to begin. To my family and friends who see this, please don't worry yourself unnecessarily for me. I appreciate it, but I don't want it.