I’m actually about to retire for the night, go curl up with my blanket and read a couple of chapters and just, well, resign from life for the rest of the night, but I thought I’d write a quick blog post.
“The difference between you and me is that when you wake, your nightmare ends.”
I’ve been in and out it recently. Very much so. To the point I’m not even sure how I feel.
There will be times during the day where everything is perfect and I’m feeling the best I’ve ever felt before and all of a sudden, my smile falters and I just fall into a really bad place for the rest of the day, my facade cracking, tears threatening to fall.
There will be times during the day where I just want to catch up with all my friends and for once, I actually feel loved and accepted by the people I care about and all of a sudden, love isn’t a part of my vocabulary, and I feel like love itself, whether romantic or platonic, is just a fantasy.
There will be times during the day where I’m so motivated to work hard and to strive for the things I’m passionate about, to make my dreams a reality, and all of a sudden, the crushing weight of the world falls on my shoulders and I resign to just allowing society to choose my path.
I don’t know what’s going on. I’m more confused than I’ve ever been. I thought I was getting better but clearly, I’m wrong.
I’m sitting by the window sill in the living room of my dad’s apartment, alone, listening Ed Sheeran and 5SOS, looking out at the city lights in the distance, wondering where my life is going to take me, whether I’m actually going to be able to live the life I’ve always dreamed about or whether I’ll just settle for fear of so many things.
I hate living like this.
I once saw this quote:
“Mental illness is like fighting a war where the enemy’s strategy is to convince you that the war isn’t actually happening.”
I feel like that’s me right now. I’ve always to a certain extent denied that I’m suffering from a mental illness. When I was younger and the numbness started seeping in, I hid it, locked it away, more for the lack of knowledge than anything. But then, I grew up, and I learned more, and discovered the meaning of depression and, I suppose, in a way, admitted to myself that I was depressed, but the weight of the word never quite sunk in.
All this time, I’d wished I was wrong about myself. But as the days go by, especially recently, I can’t deny it any longer. As much as I try to surpress it, it’s coming back to haunt me.
I am suffering from depression.
Yes, it may not be as bad as some others, and I’m thankful for that, but that doesn’t make it any less real.
And so now, I’m sat here, my emotions dissapating, until I can feel nothing but a strange melancholy in my heart, wondering what to do about it, and how to make it stop. I’m here, feeling like I’m on the verge of breaking down, but with no tears left to cry.
And perhaps like Frisk in Undertale, I just want to go to that one place where no one ever returns. It’s times like these when I just want to disappear.
I feel like I’m fading, melting into the night. And nothing really matters.
Because, really, what’s the point of anything?