There would be none with happy endings; only the fortunate, blessed with a few happy chapters.
I don’t suffer from depression; I suffer from existing.
There are things in this reality which, for me, make life a synonym for suffering. I don’t expect you to understand but I hope you forgive me, and that the world is kinder to you.
This felt like the shortest summer I’ve ever experienced, yet every day drags on for what feels like an eternity. Ever since the spring; the past evaporates because it’s empty and meaningless, while the present day grinds slowly on, ablating.
As often as you can; you try to remember that you’re live. Being fully conscious of existence as a sentient being, and your ability to interact with the world. Emotionally you shout praise for all things, and that you exist. Experiencing the wonders and magic of it all with those you love — and the one you love. To feel the blood pump thru your arteries and feel happiness to be alive, and gratitude to have things in your life that are of such meaningful importance to you. Cherishing every moment; with all your heart, and tears in your eyes.
And then it all goes wrong. You think about wishing to never have existed in the first place, but that would mean all those good things wouldn’t happen. You’re still thankful for them, and trembling, manage a smile while remembering. To cope, to function, you retreat within your mind. Emotionally and mentally dulling yourself to the objective point of an IQ drop, and an outward presentation of distantness which others notice regardless of how you try to mask it.
Never focusing on the moment you exist in; your head fills with imagination. Daydreaming scenarios and social interactions. Thinking about nonsense which builds in volume to white-noise as your thoughts layer on top of each other. Distracting yourself by consuming media, wasting money, and when you manage to gather the energy; work at something to the point of obsession to try and occupy your mind.
As often as you can; you try to forget that you’re live. Being fully conscious of existence as a sentient being, and your limitations within the world. Emotionally you yell out your disdain for almost all things, and that you exist. Experiencing the horrors and tragedy of it all without those you love — and the one you love. To feel the blood pump thru your arteries and feel the immediate need to empty them. Feeling the sorrow and grief to have lost the things in your life that are of such meaningful importance to you. Struggling to survive every moment; with all the pain, and tears in your eyes. Until you can push it away again, growing just that little bit more numb, and then continue about your day.
And then you write in the third person. More disconnected from yourself than ever before – by necessity. To use first person nouns is too painful. It forces me to realize that this is my existence… This is the reality I’m in, and my past that has shaped my present.
He never has to wonder. How many people wish they knew what it felt like to mean the world to someone else? To be their everything? To always be on their mind and in their heart every waking second? To be the most if not only meaningful thing in their lives? He knows…
It isn’t what people expect. It’s empty, unfulfilling, unimportant, sad, and tragic. To be loved is meaningless. For him to be aware of and try to understand what I feel for him (which is beyond his comprehension) doesn’t let him experience it or feel it. For all intents and purposes, that knowledge is meaningless. My emotions aren’t “for” him. They do him no good. My love for him is my own… What he means to me, and why – being a blazing sun in an otherwise cold and dark void. Those feelings are mine. For me. As much as I wish I could share this wonder, I can’t. As much as I wish it could be meaningful to him, or positive to him, or bring him happiness; it can’t. My feelings are my own. They are about him, but not for him. They’re in my mind, and are the core of my very being. Something that can only be seen from within. To me they are everything, while to others they might as well not exist.
What does it feel like to be loved? The harsh reality is… nothing.
But what does it feel like to love? Everything…
I feel like this revelation should somehow ease the pain, or grant some higher perspective or enlightenment… But no… It all just sucks.
Commitment issues? Lack of belonging? Paranoid? Anti-social? Untrusting? Feeling like a burden?
Well, everything I’ve ever tried to commit myself to in my entire life has failed spectacularly in fashions that appear almost if by design to hurt me. Nearly everyone I called a friend stabbed me in the back, semi-lied to me and semi-conspired against me, and then abandoned everything just to avoid one of my best friends and I. And another best friend, the only person I knew in real life and that told my only secret to (about who I love), betrayed me both to my face and also my back, as he was instrumental in getting everyone to stab me in the back and leave (to my face), and also didn’t tell me how close he was getting to the person I love (to my back). Now I’m miserable, depressed, and suicidal. I never lie, and so my emotional state became a burden.
So do I have some fucking issues? You bet.
But yeah, must be one of those damn mental illnesses; always so irrational.
If I’m very very lucky; after a deep and long 6 hour sleep, I wake up with a slight smile on my face with white-noise thoughts in my mind. As I open my eyes and the world comes into focus, they squeeze shut again while every muscle tightens with the pain of remembering. After a couple seconds, I’m able to release my held breath, and a few tears. Small tremors and shakes as my body fills with adrenaline thanks to fight-or-flight responses. Unable to fight, unable to flight – my body’s efforts are wasted, though more effective than a morning coffee. A few more seconds of shallow breathing while I clench a blanket, pillow, or just my fist, until I can open my eyes again. Staring down another day, I fantasize about putting a gun to my head and ending the torture. The thought is comforting. I sprawl out and stretch, and let out a small gasping chuckle at my own depression, the situations that brought me to where I am, and how I’m stuck here.
With a yawn and deep breath, I climb out of bed to endure one of the worst pains I couldn’t even imagine, every single second for yet another day. Sit down at the computer, message people, turn on some music, check to see if I have work, look for shows/movies/youtube videos to start the parade of distractions that will carry me through the day. Distractions are very important to me now.
Have some fun. Laugh a little. Spend some time with friends. Maybe help a few people; listen to them, relate and understand, give some advice. I’m as happy as I can be, a solid 6/10, which is what I now consider as “ecstatic”.
Thoughts and memories are always present, but if I can focus on other things they can be pushed to the back of my mind. So I struggle to not be alone with my own thoughts. To avoid existential moments/perspectives, or things I used to do. I’m always with a target, always focused. Exhausting. I get through it. I function as best I can. The need for distractions can make me extremely efficient and productive if I choose to be. I try to avoid doing things I know will bring up memories, or certain thought patterns. A few PTSD-styled flashbacks and dissociation scattered throughout my usual activities. I always recommend “voluntary confrontation and exposure” to people, and have seen it help. But for me there’s nothing left to confront. Nothing left to do but suffer and wait. To be as least-miserable as I can be. To make it bearable. To hold on until I can leave without causing more harm. Suicidal ideation is a reoccurring theme, spread among all the other thoughts. Comforting. Offers a sense of stability, a vague sense of hope in some twisted way. The only thing I could hope for now.
I like sleep. I like the nothingness, dreams I don’t remember, a bit of relief. I stay awake as long as I can because when I try to sleep I’m alone with my own thoughts. I stay up until I’m on the verge of passing out because if I don’t fall asleep within a couple minutes of laying down, I won’t be able to run from my everything that’s happened and I won’t be able to sleep. So when I’m so tired I can feel myself slipping from consciousness, I go to lay down. To do it all again tomorrow.
That’s what I consider a good day now. That’s as good as it gets.
That’s when I can answer in a cheery tone; “I’m doing good! Thanks for asking.”
When thoughts of what you’re doing for dinner and what shows you want to watch are interspersed among fantasies of putting a gun to your head and pulling the trigger. When your life ended in your past, and you’re nothing but a walking corpse waiting for an opportunity to lay in your grave without causing more harm. Certain that things will never be okay again, and feeling that if they ever were, that would mean something went wrong with you. When everything is a distraction to escape being alone with your own thoughts, feelings, and memories- while simultaneously not wanting to ignore them.
Days, weeks, months, years… Wondering how long you’ll need to be alive without living again.
Wishing it could be over, because for you it already is.
You’re already dead.
To understand, to listen, to apologize. Against all odds.
I suppressed my instincts. I trusted them at their word, tried to only see them for who they said they were. When I opened up, they lied to me. I felt it would be foolish to throw away a chance like that so I played along. I hoped my instincts were incorrect about everything, I hoped I was just damaged. I wanted to have met someone good. I wanted to be wrong.
I was the one who felt violated after I was lied to, manipulated, and betrayed when I was at my most vulnerable. Violated in a way I never felt before. Yet, if I didn’t try… If I didn’t apologize on the improbable chance I was the one who was wrong. Incase their words to my friend weren’t just another manipulation, and they actually felt that I hurt or betrayed them in some way. If despite all evidence and observation confirming the instincts I hated, I was mistaken or ignorant. If there was any ounce of truth to the person I chose to believe in. If I didn’t try to listen to what they had to say, I would mean I had lost who I am. What little sense of self I have.
When I learned of it, I was quick to run away. I said good bye and deleted them in a rush, trying to sort out what I was feeling. I regret not trying to talk to them then, or trying to get a reply and have an open discussion despite the chaos in my mind. Inspite everything confirming my instincts, I want to believe they weren’t malicious. I want to be wrong so desperately. How could anyone so kind be so hurtful. I was the one hurt, but I’m the one who wanted to say sorry, listen to them, and believe them. At least I tried. But whether it’s to avoid risk to their current lies to others, or because they feel I betrayed them in some way – they won’t try. I hope it’s for the latter… But my instincts say it’s the former.
But, today, at least I tried. At least after all of what’s happened, I haven’t lost my ability to try, even if I should know better.
This place hates me. It’s always the same.
But I’ve been so desperate to be proven wrong…
Taking what was left of my already damaged trust. Placing it in someone when I was at my most vulnerable. I feel violated. Betrayed in the exact way I opened up about. The one and only thing I asked for was truth. It was a final attempt. It took me my entire life to start giving up on people. Trusting individuals; against instinct, against all odds. Believing at face value, hoping to not be hurt, hoping not to be lied to, hoping things will be different. They lie for selfish reasons. They manipulate, use, and betray. Sometimes they do it because they think it’s right, sometimes telling the truth is too hard, and sometimes just because they can. They hide their intentions, their motives, their objectives, their actions – to get what they want. I don’t hold it against any of them, it’s just how it is. Maybe that’s how it has to be, otherwise they’d end up like me.
But I’ve finally learned my lesson: everyone lies.
Maybe it’s my turn to lie? Maybe it’s my turn to get what I want? To lie so that I can finally leave.
But… I still want to trust… So desperately…
Now I know I can’t.
Someone wants to end their existence to escape the suffering and avoid more pain, lied to and betrayed all their life. After they confide in you, saying good bye rather than disappearing without a trace, you stop them by lying to them, getting them to open up and toy with their emotions while betraying them behind their back. Unsure if it was for personal gain, or for a belief that they were doing the right thing.
The one thing I’m certain of, is that it’s cruel.