van gogh doesn’t exactly help to describe depression

June 4th, 2017by submarines

I don’t know why I’m here. Mostly because I’m a series of contradictions. I’d probably tell me to fuck off if I had to deal with me.

You see, I don’t want to be alone, but I like being alone. It’s comfortable. I don’t have to explain anything to me. It’s not exhausting, dealing with myself. But with other people? Ha. Maybe I’m just around the wrong people. Or maybe I’m the one who is not quite right.

There’s a potrait of Van Gogh on the Wikipedia page for clinical depression. It doesn’t help to describe it. I mean, it has this sort of tiredness or numbness to it, like something is pressing down your chest and you hope that immense amounts of sleep will will it away, and I can relate to that part. I recognize it. I can only relate to it becausr I recognize it — maybe there’s other parts I’m not seeing. Parts I’m noy recognizing. Yet.

A lot of people talk about having depression and alienating your friends. But they talk about how they want their friends to help them, to push them. They appreaciate their friends trying to knock down their walls. I don’t. I want to be alone. I like to alienate people. I like to push them away. They’re too much. They’re like chores. I talk to them, and I’m exhaused. I go out with them at 3 P.M., and I’m exhausted. They all laugh at something that I can’t manage to find funny, and it hits me as I try to fix a polite smile at my face — I want to die. It’s pointless. All of it. I just want to be left alone. To leave them and lie in the grass a few feet away and sleep. Going out to “distract” myself doesn’t work, not really. It only points out what I already feel.

People talking about “depressing thoughts” hitting them after midnight. It’s a 24/7 shift with me. Like when I’m out with my friends and trying to smile at a joke, or watching a Youtube video after having dinner. I was trying to listen to Fiona Apple a few days ago, and it hit me so hard it almost knocked the breath out of me. All of them, all at once. It was a very messy attack. Effective, but messy.

I paused the song and stared at my computer screen for a long time. I tried to ignore the thoughts and listen to more Fiona Apple afterwards, but it’s hard. Fighting them off and all. Even Fiona Apple can’t help with that.

I’d formed a connection with someone along the way. Someone who didn’t demand explainations. Someone who didn’t exhaust me, as if interacting with them sucked out my life force. You search all the time for that person, you know — that one person who gets you. That one person who just understand. But, you see, me and relationships aren’t exactly friends: I ruin them out of fear. Out of fear that that person will get to know me — the real me, and not the persona I parade in public — and hate me. Out of fear that they’ll get tired. That they won’t understand.

So I ruined it. That one thing that felt like something very close to hope. And I know this sounds cheesy, but that person felt like a one-way ticket out of my misery. Well, not out all of it, perhaps — but that isn’t the goal. The goal is to keep the misery to a minimum. And I cut that person right off because I was scared.

As you see, my misery isn’t being kept to a minimum right now.

I would look down at my thigh and imagine driving a knife into it. There would be the wet sound of knife tearing through flesh, and then blood: blood would spurt out, messy and bright red. Brighter than one would expect. And I’d stab myself over and over and over again, and blood would pool into my pants. I think it started when I was around 13 or 14 or so, this weird fantasy. I guess you can say it escalated over the years.

It’s not a noose, exactly. A gun is messy, gore and brain bits everywhere. Pills, maybe, but that has its own doubts.

I hate myself, because I know I won’t do it. That’s almost worse than doing it. I want to see the possibilities. For me. I want to torture myself to see the possibilities. I want to get to the end of the story (well, not exactly to the end, but the middle-ish.) I’m admittedly curious. I’m a girl in the Middle East, for shit’s sake. You can’t expect me not to be curious.

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