the apparition of these faces in the crowd

I am not the only one. There are others, multiple hordes, some of whom are people I know, people I even see regularly. Though I am slowly emerging into admitting my illness, they must do so too. Until this happens we are all alone here and we are dead.

There are no similes and there are no metaphors; everything can only be explained and delineated in exact terms. There are continual pressures applied from other people, wherever I turn. I try to escape, yet someone inevitably & invariably lurks around the next mental vista. There is truly nowhere to go when the thoughts inside your head are destroying your mind, pulverising your being, dismantling your core. Nobody understands because their natural reaction is to dismiss or to scoff. Though, in truth, I think they do realise. I believe there are swathes of fellow sufferers. I have seen it. We must speak out, despite my being aware of what a struggle it is. I fear society, I’m frightened by responses, so I laugh, I lie. I am a fake and a fraud and have no right to talk about anything because I don’t matter. There is enough evidence in the speech of others to dictate my terms, which are coldly: I do not deserve to exist as anything other than a figure of ridicule, and I must accept this notion. This is because I have depression and it is ruling – perhaps destroying – my life.

I have been suffering. I deserve this punishment. I’m shaking because I create a mask so I’m lying to myself and I’m being deceitful towards others by faking it, so I’m becoming everything I disdain in others. I’ve lost interest in so much & I really don’t have the passion. The saddest aspect is there is nobody with whom I can talk. This is all I have.

At night it generally takes me two hours before I succumb to slumber, and the thoughts passing through my mind can only be described as agonising. Then I wake up and spend hours prone with only my mind for company. It hits me hard: I’m not good enough, and I cannot compare with those around me. I’m weak, I’m shameful, I’m pathetic, I’m a failure. I deserve it all while simultaneously having no right to complain. I’m alone during these soulless hours yet that is some comfort, as there is seldom any solace when I’m in the crowd – when I’m really lonely because I have to conceal the shame. When I sleep I awaken in fear, knowing acutely that there are several hours to go before it is normal to get out of bed. The guilt manifests itself, searing my mind, cauterising each aspect of my seething anger and brooding pain because I know desperately that I am disliked by the hordes, the masses. It’s okay, for they are better people than I am because I dwell solely on my own fleeting concerns.

My confidence is shattered, and my vision is blurred. I want to cry so much that the tears fail to emerge. They fail: something I regularly do, the sole function which is invariably achieved, always succeeds. Sometimes I do cry, I bawl tears yet I know not what for, or for whom. There’s nobody here to see or to hear. Pull yourself together, man! It’s what I fear they will all say. The constant ridicule for proving my weakness, can only lead to eternal shame which would be disastrous. While it remains inside me, unmentioned, there is hope. When there is nothing left at least I harbour hope. Only now have I courageously spoken. I feel no better as I type, only sadder, and worthy of even more contempt. What I’m pining for, I’m not certain. I’m admitting it to myself because I’m sick of lying to myself. Surely I matter, if only to me.

There is so much that is not right, not fair, and for me everything seems wrong and I’m merely powerless. So what is it like? It hurts, and more – much more – than physical pain. It is like being chased by a black dog, creeping up on my shoulders but I’m incapable of fighting because I can’t, and I suppose I don’t really want to do anything but let it submerge me. There is a constant grey cloud over me for a fortnight, and then I’m back until further hits materialise repeatedly, like I’m surrendering to a beating and simply accepting it before experiencing a strange calm through the agony. Recently – this past 18 months – it has been in punishing, withering bouts every day, ephemerally. Now it seems permanent. It’s dragging me, smothering me, and I wish I could move. I want to scream out, or plead with deference for it to stop yet it’s overwhelming. Nothing happens when I resist, so it’s better to conserve energy. I don’t want to be around people; it’s futile to socialise as they’ve upset me enough and not apologised for the trauma they’ve dealt me.

The mocking is inexorable, this ceaseless abyss into which I stare because I am too mentally-beaten to make eye contact. I glance away, towards the ground, for simple terror, panic, and alarm that my secrets will be revealed. Though I can confess here while nobody reads: I am miserable to the pits of my threadbare existence, and nobody has the grace to listen. I do not deserve to talk, my voice must remain unheard because I will never be satisfied, such is the solipsist I am. Selfish people, these depressives, there are no physical manifestations, they appear fine and well. You really should know better. I often want to collapse in the street, in public because the fear and the shame overwhelm. I need to cry, I need to scream. I am weakening, wasting away.

I am carrying a burden which, sometimes I wonder whether it is only shame, the sadness of my predicament. Sometimes the feeling subsides, though only temporarily. Its transient passing brightens my mood so how can anybody possibly believe me if I affirm my depression? They cannot and I will not expect it. I attempt to formulate visions notwithstanding the blocks, insurmountable obstacles presenting themselves as dark vistas ready to metamorphose into punishing ideas to torment me further. The distance is so great for I cannot see, I cannot fathom an end. Even when I extrapolate a timeframe into which I think I must be residing I fail to foresee a culmination. The gloom is all there is with nothing beyond it.

I struggle to function normally, so I require even more time alone. Thinking is all I want to do but it’s a struggle, a mental burden. Simple tasks go wrong, though I used to perform them with consummate ease. I’m slowing down, I’m weakening physically, while the mental anguish kills me. Nobody understands, and I haven’t really explained it but I can’t, for I’m incapable. I’m merely a being, extant, latent, worthless, insignificant, apparently unlike the others. I walk the streets at all hours, alone, hoping to catch a glimpse into someone’s eye – a stranger – for an iota of recognition. I leave, and return still lonely, still saddened, still hopeless. There is nothing for me to do, very little remains as I’ve ceded control to the black dog, the depression. I like my own company so I walk. I walk and I sleep, or I try to do these things though they become harder as time goes on.

So all I do is try to think, rather than actually thinking through thoughts. I’m constantly crying because I have convinced myself that I’m loathed. I consider the people I know, those I grew up with, those around me. Their lives appear so exciting, so carefree, with only appropriate responsibilities looked upon with awe and respect. Then there is me: I cannot compare. I can’t help it, I can’t stop it. I drink a drink. It’s a downer. I knew it was yet the block prevents me from realising. I return to bed. The negative thoughts swirl around once more. I’ve accepted that I will not be sleeping tonight but I can’t do much else as I’m incapable of concentrating, even on mundane tasks. I’m useless and I’m worthless. I’m depressed. I’m feeling the guilt – tingling pangs and brutal blows. Pow! It hits me in the solar plexus, just as the pain in my head and my face increases. Is this a joke? I’m the joke but I’m finally honest and that is surely worth something, but not enough for the torment to terminate. I wait for the daylight and the cycle to commence again. For me it’s not a cycle, it’s merely a constant. I am left to console myself with the fact that I’m different from all the people I know due to this malady, this humbling ailment- the same people who want me to suffer, and will be so delighted to find out the truth. Then I realise that I am being arrogant because ultimately I’m forgotten within the transient thoughts in their worthless minds. I’m nothing, and always have been. I shouldn’t feel upset. I don’t even think that I should feel ashamed because then I would be denying my true self. I would be lying to myself.

So I am a bad person. A terrible, warped, selfish, disgraceful individual who will forever remain ungrateful and unsatisfied. In spite of this I don’t complain because I am coerced into silence. There is nobody here, I am alone. I must accept my portion and try to combat it. I struggle, for I cannot resist, it pulls me in, into its miasma, the noxious vapour emerging from the dismal pit of dismay. This is my life and I do not wish it on anybody. I am a forgotten soul. A tainted, stained, marked person, and it is all my fault. It has to be – I am solely to blame – because I have reached this point unencumbered. I remember everything, I take it all close to heart. I recall all details to my eternal agony, increasing the tension, heightening the punishment. If only, imagine if or whether. No. Is this it? Yes, this is it. For me, at least, this is it. This is all there is, and all there will ever be. I have peaked, mentally and physically. I have reached a crescendo and only these hollow words can act as catharsis while I navigate my way slowly down from the zenith, foraging a miserable path, shuffling from the summit of emptiness which is where I am and where I deserve to be. I have fulfilled my ambitions, I have reached my destination. Life has peaked and only more misery will follow. I am calmed in the safety brought by the knowledge that I know my own future; my destiny will be as it is now, for it will never improve on this, just constant bleakness. I know so I am satisfied.

This is where I currently am. Alone amongst the world, while we continually pass each other, scrutinising insignificant data, while failing to stop for a moment of recognition. One look, one smile could be all that is required to save someone, to give them a maudlin image to which they can thoughtfully cling. It never happens. It never will happen. This is all there is when you’re in my situation. Things don’t change. The talent is in the choices and I just don’t have it. You make your own luck, it’s not what you know, it’s who you know. I know what people think of me. I should not care whether people think positively or negatively of me, though I do. Typical. I know. I think I have all the answers but I don’t – that’s what you think. Really, I know exactly your thoughts on me. Thinking someone is worthless, or does not even count in your dull mind is a very strong thought. Every action has an effect. The ends always justify the means when you make your own decisions, and it is due to other people causing you to feel this way. Every time. I do this every time, and every time I do this, I still know what people think. Sometimes I only wish that they could properly think, simply to stop, to pause and to reflect before they mentally move on into another transient reverie.

So I don’t belong because that is how I feel. This where I am right now. It’s getting late for some, while it’s early for others. Thoughts – we all have them. They hurt me, just like other people do. Though I sincerely deserve it because I am rubbish. I am but dust and most people don’t even acknowledge me. I don’t matter. To many, I don’t even exist. Hello, I am dead, pleased to meet you. I am here and I am dead. So I see it all, I see you all and I know what you do, and the damage you cause to countless lives. I take the brunt of it, as do some others. It’s all my fault because I don’t deserve to breathe, yet still I continue to live in a world where I am not wanted. Doublethink. So I must be strong to continue through this pain, this sheer agony, while simultaneously knowing that I am not better than anyone else. No, I am worse. I am useless and I am nothing. I don’t believe in anything or anyone because I have not met anyone who believes in me. Don’t look back, albeit from where do I go? And into what or where can I view? There is no glittering future, no sparkling or gilded existence into which I will wake up. I am loathed and I am despised by those who used to know me, those I encounter, those who hear about me, those who pass me, those who have merely heard my name. A stained name. This is my anguish. The days don’t matter when they are all dark days. I suffer from depression every day, in varying degrees of pain which can sometimes be truly debilitating. Yes, to repeat, I have depression. Welcome to life. Welcome to my life.