What’s the Point?

Surely, you’ve heard the phrase “old soul.” Dammit, that’s me.

I’m not that old. I’m still young, most people would say. But the things I’ve been through and the perspectives I’ve held must surely tell another story. I say this with sincerity, not grandiosity. In fact, I’m sorry to admit it. I wish I saw things differently.

All my life I’ve dealt with depression. To be fair, I didn’t start noticing it until I was maybe 9 years old, but I did notice it, and it only got worse with time. Depression brings with it a world of pain. And contrary to the popular phrase “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” if you never overcome it it will only make you weaker. As someone who has not yet overcome it, I can verify that. But maybe I’m only right as it pertains to me. If you’re depressed, would you say that it gets better over time, or worse?

People sometimes say that those with a mental illness have a warped view of the world…or of themselves. If this is true, is it true all of the time, or just some of the time? Does someone with depression, for example, automatically have a warped perception, or are there exceptions? It’s hard to know something like that, because whether you’re depressed or not, how are you to know how the other side views things? I guess the best way to find out would be having someone notice a contrast, if any, between being depressed themselves and not being depressed. I have noticed such a contrast myself, as I’ve randomly experienced happiness at times, although I’m generally depressed.

I’ve dealt with more nonsense than I care to remember. Hardly any of it was circumstancial. The great majority of it was due to my perceptions.

I live just as most people do: I go to school, to work, sometimes I find time to date, and I go to the gym and indulge in some hobbies when I can. But it’s the way I view myself, the world, and my place in the world that gets me down. And I don’t know if I have such a shitty outlook on these things because they are, in fact, miniscule independent of how I view them, or because there’s just some genetic predisposition about me that makes me feel so worthless and view things as I do. After many years of wondering what came first, my perceptions or depression, I’ve decided that I don’t care anymore. What the hell difference does it make, anyway? I guess it might matter in terms of finding a good treatment, but I’m tired of that, too. I don’t care.

Yes, depression is a crippling illness. Define it however you like. Call it something insignificant, or call it something serious. Whatever you call it, whatever you call the symptoms that people like me deal with, it sucks.

I…observe myself. I take measure of how I feel overall. I can collect the memories of the past few months at any given time and ask myself “would I like to relive that?” The answer is, and always has been, no. That’s not to say that I haven’t had any pleasurable or happy times, but that the overall quality of my life sucks. At least as I see it.

Then I feel guilty. Not just because guilt is a symptom of depression, but because I know that my circumstances are not so bad. How dare I feel so depressed? What is wrong with me that I feel this way? …I’ll tell ya what’s wrong with me: I’m depressed. And I’ve come to call this “being sick.” I can’t help but notice such a high contrast between myself and my peers. My peers are anyone in the world whom I come in contact with. They are so much more upbeat and carefree than I am. Everyone has their facade to an extent, but trust me when I tell you that I see that as unhappy as some of them may be, they’re all significantly happier than I am. And you know why? There’s only one true reason why. It’s not simply that I view things differently than them, nor is it that I’m necessarily more insighftul than them. It’s not that I consume less energy drinks than them, nor is it that I’m single. It’s simply because I’m sick. One might say that someone with schizophrenia is sick, and similarly, I am also sick. People just know my sickness as depression.

It’s a great struggle to get up and face the day, everyday. And for what purpose? To give myself a chance at a better tomorrow? And when tomorrow comes and I feel the same, do I continue to live only with the hope that another tomorrow might be better? What do I do after feeling this way year after year? Sure, there’re some good times in the midst of it all, but if I’m ultimately hurting, or if I’m sick, then what’s the point?

And then I remind myself that no matter what I do for myself, good or bad, I will eventually die. I’m getting older and I see that I’m slowly dying, psychologically and physically. Tasks are tougher. Injuries come more easily and last longer. And all the while I’m suffering inside, wondering, and hoping even, for that last day-the day that I’ll finally die. Because I can’t seem to bring myself to pull the trigger. I guess I have to wait it out. What a waste.

I’m tired of hurting. I’m tired of feeling this way and feeling this way year after year. Don’t tell me it’ll get better. Don’t you dare. What the hell kind of evidence do you have that it will? I’ll answer that for you: None. If things get better it’ll be because of chance. But I’m not hopeful. I’ve run out of hope. There’s no logical, substantiated reason to believe in the concept of hope anymore. Not for me, at least. I don’t think that I can bring myself to put a gun to my head as I’ve fantasized about probably a thousand times. I just don’t know…but either way, it’s a miserable ending. This one’s just slower.

It’s a tough thing to recognize and acknowledge your own mortality. And to accept it. And to realize how fragile you really are. And to be miserable all the while.

So you’ll see me when you see me, smiling or not, laughing in the bar, working, or on a date. But the person you’re looking at is not someone who is happy. It’s someone who is hurting.