“What are you doing?” they ask. I’m dying. Why is that so hard to understand?
I don’t want to be dying. It’s not like this is fun. Feeling like dying isn’t normal. It’s not enjoyable. It’s not something I want to do. It just feels like I’m out of options.
In some ways, I’m actually very happy the people around me don’t understand my feelings. I mean, maybe they would if I told them how I felt, but I don’t really want to find out.
The beauty of anonymity, in terms of depression, is that you don’t know who it is that feels this way. You know how they feel and you know what they tell you. You don’t know their past or what they’ve done. You don’t even know their name. You don’t know if it’s someone you know. And all this applies to you, too. They are and you are entirely feelings, and who best to understand that than someone who feels the same way?
So in some ways, I’m happy people don’t understand these feelings. To understand them is to experience them, and I would never want anyone to experience these feelings.
I hope that when I die, no one says “I wish she told me. I would have understood.” I don’t want them to understand. I hope no one thinks I’m a horrible person, either. I don’t want to die a bad person, even if that’s what I am. I hope I can do enough or show that I’ve tried hard enough to be a good person. If I can save only one thing about me, I’d want it to be my integrity. Maybe I can carry my integrity into my next life. Maybe if I do better in another life, I can live that one to the fullest. I can live it to the end like I’m supposed to.
When I die, I hope someone tells me I did a good job. I want someone to tell me I suffered enough, and I want them to wish me happiness in my death. I hope someone tells me I tried my best and I hope they say I did all I could in this life. I hope someone says it was too much and that it’s okay. I hope someone tells me I deserved to be happy.
I just want to be happy. I hope I can be happy.