My relationship with my mind is tumultuous at best. For most of my life I’ve had depression. Which is fine. It’s the only emotion I know fluently, and it has always been there, like an imaginary friend. Since I knew the nature of the beast I accepted depression as a fact of life, even to the extent I believed everyone was depressed.
I am more creative when I’m depressed. I can pop out decent poetry and short stories with little effort. My cooking and impromptu recipes are always more flavorful. I can draw very well, and music always sounds better.
When I’m not depressed, nothing meets my expectations. Ironically everything just seems dull. At least depression has vibrant, dark hues. There was beauty in everything, and other crap hormonal, depressed teenagers said in the ’00s
My depression and I had a good thing. It inspired a glorious goth phase, I had my own hiding place that no one could trespass, and the gloom and doom was mild compared to what was lying in wait.
Then I had a psychotic break.
My own mind had betrayed me. A monster was there the entire time. Laying low, unnoticed, waiting patiently for an easy kill. Once the BPD set in I couldn’t visit my depression. I would get sucked into a violent cycle of severe depression, apathy, rage, always ending with a suicide attempt.
I’ve been stable over 2 years and have become “normal”, and I’ve recently started to miss my depression. I want to go back into my little hidey hole. But I can’t.
tl;dr Anyone else find depression comfortable or even satisfied when depressed?
3 comments
Well I wouldn’t say depression is comfortable, I would more likely say when you are happy with life you automatically put yourself into depression because you are use to it.
I have the same problem. Read my post about depression. I talk about the same thing near the end of it.
It just seems like I’m a different person. And I have to say I like the depressed version. I had less insecurities because I shut everyone out. I took pride in my goth. And I wouldn’t take shit from anyone.
Now. I put as little effort into anything I do, and feel like all my flaws are extremely noticeable. It’s like any fight left in me was fueld by depression. Now I don’t put pants on unless I have to. When I’m not depressed I have to keep everything boxed in and categorized. Depressed me just doesn’t give a damn about that crap.