Saturday, September 15, 2007


I wish I had something more interesting to say than whine about my depression, but I don't. I wish I wasn;t depressed, but I am.

I guess I should be grateful that I'm not as depressed as I was a year ago or so, but I still can't but feel that true happiness is out of my reach. Every day it gets a little harder to get out of bed, a little harder to get dressed. When I do get dressed I most likely put on gnarly old sweatpants and a threadbare t-shirt because it just doesn;t seem worth it to put on anything else. No one ever sees me and I rarely see anyone. I don't miss these things. And that's part of being depressed that's frightening to me: how little I miss things. I vaguely remember times when I was energetic and active and had activities in my life that I enjoyed. But these things are distant as the memories of dreams. Like they happened to someone else, or like I read about them somewhere.

This is more familiar, this grey fog that creeps into my heart more and more every day. I've struggled with it as long as I can remember, honestly. I remember feeling this way when I was nine years old. Even then I knew I had no value. But even then I could find things that gave me a moment's happiness. Not so anymore. It's as if I've tried everything, leeched all the hapiness I could out of every activity imaginable and I can't think of anything else I'd like or like to do.

People who don't suffer this can't imagine it. They think you can just snap out of it or perk up at will. But dead flowers don;t come back to life and that's a fact.

I'm tired of this now.

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