My life is at an end.

I have been living as my own best friend for two years now, after attending college and living with friends from whom I rapidly grew apart. I find it hard to get along with them, though I’ve known them for years and lived with them for years, getting past whatever pettiness comes from living in close quarters and learning who they really were; they do not care about my and show that through their actions. They are inconsiderate.

And so I began cultivating a life of my own. We shared many interests (it was a household of musicians and satirists), but as they would not take an interest in my life, I allowed myself to ignore them. Those I met at school and elsewhere, I also ignored. There seemed to be nothing to them, nothing I could admire. This sounds incredibly harsh but this is how I feel. I wrote for myself and did not need approval or congratulations to know my work was worthwhile, but the work in itself has stopped satisfying me. I’ve lost the drive to record the music in my head. What I used to clutch in both hands in my life, I now dismiss.

With life having dulled, the obvious solution would be antidepressants, but that ignores the issue. There was a healthy period where I was thriving and anxious to live. Those activities have not changed, but the spark has gone away. I’ve tried and cannot seem to get it back.

It’s said, when a person falls in love their world seems to begin anew, that having someone to share all the things they enjoy brings a new appreciation for life. I feel silly expecting my problems to be solved by meeting someone; everyone wants to be in a relationship where they can share love. I’ve thought about how my life would change if I had a girlfriend or a wife, and I can’t find a reason for that to change my disconnection from my work.

Most creative people suffer from depression. Many people I admire, Robert Frost, Greg Glassman (living), Hemingway – I can see the sadness the weighed down their lives. Hemingway was a more successful and well-traveled man than I, with a wife and children, and he still took his life. Those who didn’t commit suicide were often killed by addiction.

I’ve been writing this post for thirty minutes and lost track of my thoughts. I’ll end saying there has been a disconnect – from life, and from other people. I am certainly willing to correct whatever has gone wrong in my life or my brain, but I assuredly see myself becoming a victim of my disease. Even if I don’t kill myself, I imagine I’ll live the rest of my life fighting my depression. That is not to say it cannot be overcome, but that battle is grueling and already taking a toll. For how obliteratedly drunk I was when first posting, the above is surprisingly coherent and sums up my mentality near-perfectly. 24 hours later, sober, and in a more neutral mood, I am still struggling to resolve those same thoughts.

Eloisa, I posted my reply to Kasey while yours was still pending, but you are right. I am not at peace. I’ve said it in a few other threads, but I just do not seem to be connected to this world or anyone living. I feel more like an observer. I feel more at home in my imagination and in my dreams than I do in waking life. I’m reaching for something I can’t see.