It’s always playing yourself down, remembering your IQ score a few points lower than it actually is.
This fever isn’t as high, the thermometer is lying, I’m lying. I’m not actually sick. I’m not actually an artist. I can’t write.
It’s about constantly doing a double take on the good things.
Depression is a mental illness because it doesn’t just influence your moods, it influences your brain.
I’ve been saying I’m going to study from September last year. I didn’t forget, but today I didn’t even get out of bed.
Your depression bleeds over into normal situations.
Depression is about the circles under your eyes, laughing hallow. Pretending that other people have life worse than you do at the moment.
Thinking the ‘the end is near’. That it’s not like a comment or an earthquake or a heart attack, no it’s living the end Daily, thinking about how you are going to end it all. To me the end is here, I’m living it, breathing it. A shopping spree away from buying poison.
It’s not sunnden anymore to you, because it’s simply a decision away. It’s a fact like the horizon. If I didn’t wake up, it would be a blessing.
I just feel sorry for the people who has to clean up the mess.
Being drepressed is like being stained with a large dark spot in your heart. It crushes you into a million glittering pieces. Believing that you’re just a smear on a pane of glass.
Maybe I’m just some memory of a person instead of a whole creation?
Didn’t I use to be someone worth mentioning? Am I just a shell of some heartbreak? No one will miss me.
Does someone notice that I’m going? My bed is my anchor. A meuseam I’ll soon dedicate to depravity. I dedicate it mostly to my mental illness; depression. My restless ness of a room is a throne room to discarded garments and art projects. I get use to it so quickly because it’s how my whole being feels.
An Ill smelling mess of a person.
Someone, anyone?
I’m turning into a scribble. A person with undefinition. Ian there something out there to burn this house down with? It’s not self harm if it’s only a cry for help. It’s not drug abuse if no one is around to see it, anyway. It’s not deprivation if you’ve never really allowed yourself anything good.
It’s just that you sort of doubt that you’ve ever felt anything REAL. If you’re capable of feeling or caring or loving.
You’re a mess of a person and you cannot even really care anymore because there’s no one left to care for, to teach you how to love. And if you’re really really lucky? No one will smell the decay. No one will notice the grave. No one will see you’re adorning your coffin inch by inch with your own hollow bones. No one will see the fake smile or the turmoil of pain.
You try to fill up that god awful nothing with happiness, you chip away your life with tiny bites of love, choke it down.
Pretend, pretend.
Do yoga
Meditate
For god sakes there’s children starving in Africa. What does your emotional pain matter?
Besides, all you’re doing is sitting in a bed and shoving all your emotions into the darkness.
But I’m just a sad soul trying to spoon the sadness out of my body. And you’re trying to let yourself go.
I can wash the hospital out of my hair, can’t choke another charcoal tube out of my throat.
Ohgodohgodohgod. Is there anything left?
