Depression (to me) is akin to an unwanted guest, one in which wreaks
havoc, destroys everything & then leaves as if it were never there. I’m
27 years old, yet mentally I feel 72. I’ve delt with depression almost
my entire life - silently, alone, by m...
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Depression (to me) is akin to an unwanted guest, one in which wreaks
havoc, destroys everything & then leaves as if it were never there. I’m
27 years old, yet mentally I feel 72. I’ve delt with depression almost
my entire life - silently, alone, by myself.. to see me in person one
would think I’m the happiest person alive, as I don’t fit that
stereotypical (rather demeaning) look & “vibe” of that of whom is
majorly depressed. My family, my peers & so on - assume that I’m a happy
go lucky, calm, all together there person… rather to the contrary. For
the past three or so years, I’ve spiralled so far down into the deepest
rut of depression, to the likes I’ve never experienced before. I have no
explanation as to why, well there are a few things that contribute to my
depression, however not really noteworthy. To be honest, I don’t even
know why I’m here (again) writing this paragraph. I suppose.. well, I’ve
delt with this depression, this ‘black fog’, all my life, in silence -
as I feel if I were to talk to those in my life, I’d just be burdening
them with my problems, when they already have problems of their own. So
writing this, on here, is a way for me to talk without actually talking,
if that makes any sense. I simply don’t know what to do anymore. I sit
here, every afternoon, after the day is done, and do as we all do,
think.. & for some, contentment comes over them at the end of the day..
I haven’t felt that sense of profound contentment for some time, so long
that I’ve forgotten what it feels like. Happiness, contentment,
pleasure, profound positivity.. they all elude me as if I’m the black
plague. The black plague of the 21st century; Depression. I’ve forgotten
what true happiness feels like, I’ve forgotten my place in life, I’ve
lost myself along the way. I’m broken.. and only one person can put me
back together; me, myself. But how does one, who is broken, fix
themselves, for if I’m broken, I haven’t got the means to fix myself -
like a painter without his brush, without his brush, how is he to fill
in the gaps - how am I to fill the gaps of my sad-broken self? If I were
to try, I’d fail, yet again. These days, trying to fix ones self, has
become so tiresome, tedious, exhausting & irritating, that I don’t even
bother. Well, I can hear my name being called, so I suppose I should go,
go & pretend to be happy. I’ve become so good at pretending to be happy,
that I honestly think I deserve an Oscar. Matthew James.