Depression isn't a black dog. Or any of the more common metaphors that get circulated publically. At least, they don't apply to me.
It's worse.
It feels like I've been raped vigorously for hours. That I have fought and fought and fought for my life, against a towering man, who doesn't care about me. He doesn't care about hurting me, or humiliating me. This man will turn around and tell me that I deserved it. That I am a worthless cunt; who nobody gives a shit about, not really. And I will believe every word. Following every one of these humiliations, I dissacociate from myself. I wake up. Depression rapes me again.
My insides are hurting.
I am exhausted and I struggle to get to sleep. I recently started smoking and I drink too much.
Colours and interest in life is muted.
I am afraid to die. I have never self harmed, so I feel guilty. To be depressed, you need to physically suffer, right? Perhaps. I care about my boyfriend. Rarely, I see the good in others, including him, and it briefly makes me feel better. But even the good people in my seem tainted by some form of hardship. I once heard that pain doesn't make people more interesting; it makes them more profound. Maybe.
But what is the price of living in the universally pessimistic nature of reality?
I carry on, hoping to find some good that isn't tied up in the pain. As of now, the world is black. Only small dots of light illumate my way, despite the fact that the sun shines outside my flat window.
But the lights are dimming.
It's worse.
It feels like I've been raped vigorously for hours. That I have fought and fought and fought for my life, against a towering man, who doesn't care about me. He doesn't care about hurting me, or humiliating me. This man will turn around and tell me that I deserved it. That I am a worthless cunt; who nobody gives a shit about, not really. And I will believe every word. Following every one of these humiliations, I dissacociate from myself. I wake up. Depression rapes me again.
My insides are hurting.
I am exhausted and I struggle to get to sleep. I recently started smoking and I drink too much.
Colours and interest in life is muted.
I am afraid to die. I have never self harmed, so I feel guilty. To be depressed, you need to physically suffer, right? Perhaps. I care about my boyfriend. Rarely, I see the good in others, including him, and it briefly makes me feel better. But even the good people in my seem tainted by some form of hardship. I once heard that pain doesn't make people more interesting; it makes them more profound. Maybe.
But what is the price of living in the universally pessimistic nature of reality?
I carry on, hoping to find some good that isn't tied up in the pain. As of now, the world is black. Only small dots of light illumate my way, despite the fact that the sun shines outside my flat window.
But the lights are dimming.
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