I’d rather not say.

Uh, where to begin?

Well, my name is #^$&#, (I won’t actually put my name on the internet), and I have been depressed for quite some time now. First, a disclaimer, this story isn’t one of triumph or victory. I like to write when I’m lonely, so I write a lot. Putting it into the public’s eyes is just me doing something a bit more productive.

Although I am no psychiatrist, I can probably safely say I suffer from Social Anxiety Disorder. It wouldn’t be too hard to tell that I do; I avoid most all social contact. I rarely see friends outside of school and when it does happen it’s usually at some large event with many others whom I couldn’t recognize for the life of me. I do have a few friends, but they live across the state and to me aren’t more than disembodied heads in a Skype chat. They do exist and keep me company, but I can’t interact with them with more than buttons on my keyboard; the same thing I’m doing now to talk to complete strangers. Now, if this doesn’t sound entirely too lonely and depressing to you, (as it doesn’t to me), it’s really hard to realize how heavy that stacked up on your shoulders can be. This also makes it pretty difficult for empathy from people who haven’t gone through with it themselves, at least I assume so. I’ve never really talked to anyone who has gone through anything to similar, or anyone else with the capacity for empathizing with me. Most take friends for granted, and yes, there are social conflicts that may make one feel friendless, but those are probably exaggerations in their head. If they’re not, they have the prospect of coming out on the other side, even if they don’t see it. If not, they at least have some happy memories to take to the grave. I do not fear that my tunnel has no end, it most likely does. My only fear is with a constant loop is that I am me, and this is me, and I don’t like this. The thought that every second you exist it is that moment. I don’t get to change it to something else. There is the constant forge of history trailing just behind us, eager to for us to trip up so that it may suck us back into the cold, unforgiving past. We don’t achieve immortality through not dying, we achieve through the memories of our loved ones and the others who lives we have touched, (sorry Woody Allen).

If this doesn’t make much sense to you that’s fine. Looking back at my tirade I am equally confused what I have to be so damn depressed about. My life hasn’t really suffered any great tragedy. I haven’t lost innocence in any particularly interesting way, and I haven’t done much that would spark some kind of trauma. Well, first off, quit ostracizing me. Second, I feel all these ways because I know all of these things. I haven’t done anything to cause harm to someone else or myself and I haven’t done much that would change my way of life in any extreme extent. My depression is so obscure to many others because it’s in my head. I don’t much to be depressed about besides my own self-inflicted poor social skills. Then I think of all the others who have led traumatic lives, carried burdens far greater than my own and forced to carry depression and thoughts of suicide on their heads and I feel terribly insignificant and my depression grows. Then I feel I take depression liberally and use it to cover up my own un-wanting-ness to change and my depression grows, and this repeats and I bury myself.

Suicide has crossed my mind many times, yet I am so terrified to die.