I don’t know what I am. I feel like saying I’m depressed will be an insult to those who have it worse. I don’t know what I want from life, I just know that this isn’t it. Sometimes I try to pinpoint the exact moment in my life that I became like this, then I realise I was always this thing. This thing that doesn’t deserve to live. I know sometimes the best people we know think of themselves as absolute trash, but believe me I’m a terrible human being. I’m toxic. I keep hurting the people around me, especially my mother. I find myself getting annoyed at everything she does and says, and like the sarcastic bastard that I am, I say hurtful sarcastic things to push her away. Maybe it’s because after several attempts of trying to get her to understand what I’m going through, after writing essay length letters of how much I’m hurting, after telling her I might end my life all she does is reply “I’m happy you decided to open up to me,” and then everything just goes back to how it was. I’m pathetic aren’t I? Nothing changes just because you want to, people don’t care just because you want them to, things don’t happen just because you wish hard enough. What’s even more pathetic is expecting people to save me. Because really who can? What can she do for me, really? Did I expect her to come, hug me and tell me not to do it because it would kill her? It just sucks when your mother doesn’t care if you live or die. At times like these I rationalise, tell myself no mother would wish their kid were dead. Then images of Hitler and his mom pop up. When your child is a bad person, wishing they were dead doesn’t make you a bad person, does it?
I’m trying to be better. I always wish I were a better person, but wishing never works, and old habits die hard. I take the initiative to be better, I do do so for a week or so, and then I fail miserably and I am back to this terrible thing that I am. Why can’t I just be better? I just want to destroy the bad in me, but I have a feeling that that is all that I am. I am so sick of hurting people. I am so tired of feeling like this, I am so tired of being me, I am so tired of feeling bad. When your death would bring about more happiness than your living ever would, that means you should do the honorable thing and make yourself go away isn’t it? This seems like the only good thing I could ever do.
“Others imply that they know what it is like to be depressed because they have gone through a divorce, lost a job, or broken up with someone. But these experiences carry with them feelings. Depression, instead, is flat, hollow, and unendurable. It is also tiresome. People cannot abide being around you when you are depressed. They might think that they ought to, and they might even try, but you know and they know that you are tedious beyond belief: you are irritable and paranoid and humorless and lifeless and critical and demanding and no reassurance is ever enough. You’re frightened, and you’re frightening, and you’re “not at all like yourself but will be soon,” but you know you won’t.” – Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness
I have a tendency to rationalise. If I’m depressed, that means that there’s something wrong with me, and it isn’t my fault that I am the source of people’s annoyance and irritability. It means I’m not bad. It means I’m just sick, and that’s comforting. But I’d always feel as if it were an insult to others.