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October 9, 2017 | by  | in Opinion |
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(…Snacks)

CW: Depression, suicidal thoughts

This piece showcases a little part of how I experience depression. I wanted this to come out on Mental Health Awareness Week, as it deals with my own mental health and a glimpse at my thought processes. I think others may feel a similar way and I want to them know they are not alone. To those unable to relate to this, I hope you gain a little insight into what it is like.

***

It’s loud here.

The room is filled with smiles and cheers. Loud, upbeat noises, that seek to drown out any mention of negativity — they drown it out but do not kill it.

I feel tired. I just feel tired, getting pulled down into the ground. I paste on a smile, both on my mouth and my eyes. I hold myself up, brace my neck and take a breath. I walk in, as bright as I can be, and I say hi.

I sit down.

I look into each of their eyes, ask them how their days are, and I offer them snacks; chocolate mainly. They say that chocolate comforts you, it lessens the force pushing down your mind. I’ve never felt it, but I like to believe it.

The little details always interest me.

Usually, they take the snacks, say thank you, and their faces brighten a bit. My face gets a little lighter when they do, seeing a smile makes it easier to mimic. Sometimes they don’t take it, the snacks, and in those times I try to ignore my disappointment by giving them a bit more attention, a bit more kindness.

I try to please these people. I berate myself for it. I want them to forget the last times I’ve cried to make it all feel new again.

I am watching them; their eyes, their hand movements, the furrows of their brows, the slant of their posture. Their gazes generally awash me with silent caution, controlling more of what they say. I listen to the tone of their voices, the pitch, what they say, and what they don’t say. I think about it all.

It’s usually what they don’t say or do that gets to me. When they don’t reciprocate the questions I ask, when they drop the pitch in their voices. A feeling of discomfort envelops me. How do I change myself? How do I make the next interaction more believable?

My emotions come over me.

Everything feels wrong and I know that nothing now is wrong. They are here for me. They are genuinely here to guide and comfort me. So why don’t I feel it? What am I supposed to feel? God I just want to hide. I don’t want them to see me, I don’t want to be here.

I have my little cry, they give me their worried looks, or offers of help.

Fuck it all, to be honest.

What a cowering and pretentious bitch I am. I can do better than that. Is this little display of waterworks I’m putting on even real? I should have let go of that old shit already. But I always come back to it, to those shrill banshee-like shrieks about how I should die. How I need to die and that I am a useless piece of garbage that only seeks to inconvenience my mother. It’s funny how the next thing I think of is always the times she says she needs me in her life. That I am essentially her life. She’s proven this time and time again.

OH FOR FUCK SAKES JUST STOP. Who even are you? Fucking shut up about the whole crazy bipolar mother shit. All you do is recycle it over and over again, you pair it with the dumb disappointments of your father, you are used to all of this. You get A’s in spite of it. Your cousins love you, these people around you seem to be your friends. Although you do buy a bit of their friendship to make up for the utter lack of real personality that you have.

I scratch my arms, the elbows, my legs and my back.

Come on. I am so sick of the splotches of blood in your clothes, you’re just making a fuss for yourself and creating a time waste for yourself to clean it. You just want to try and convince them you are broken. You want to convince YOURSELF you are broken. You want their sympathy, you want to give yourself sympathy, you want attention. You’re such a needy little brat. The weekend gutter scum in the Wellington streets have more purity than you do. You’re just a self-loathing cliché with daddy and mummy issues. Boo fucking hoo, get rid of your entitled millennial overly recycled story and treat yourself better. Gosh. Like the constructed fragile little ceramic you are, why don’t you just change yourself again? Be better. Be less of a little whiny and pathetic, self-pitying child.

Oh whatever, I’m bored. Monotony just loves to rear its fickle head, doesn’t it?

There’s no point in this. These thoughts love to come back and visit all the time.

I’ve done everything I’ve been told to.

I’ve forgiven those who hurt me (But have you?), I’ve sought help from friends and family (Did you?), I’ve talked through it (A bit too much), I talk to my counsellor (You waste your time), I am honest about it all (We all know you embellish a little, it’s never that bad), I take medication (what a nice way to validate your own delusions, medication, but you do you).

I hope this will get better. (Oh, me too bitch. Me too). Eventually…

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