Gooby. 23 years young, fem and high-strung. Slowly turning into a witch that'll destroy the universe. Maybe.
Today has been what I’m going to call a “Single Man” day.
My entire day has consisted of me going through my daily routine as if I’m dead inside, the world has this colorless, slightly monochromatic tinge to it, and Abel Korzeniowski music is playing in an endless loop in my head.
^It looks a lot like this, only less formal.
Things feel dead, almost black and white, for me. I’m waiting for that moment where things gain their full color again and the pretty music starts to swell up, but so far, it hasn’t really. I’m trying to let it, but it’s just not happening.
I can’t remember how long it’s been since I’ve been this depressed for more than a few hours. Usually what happens is I fall down into that hole and either stumble upon the elevator that lifts me out, or I wake up the next day above ground again.
The last times I remember my depression bleeding into the next day was when I was in high school, and right before I was hospitalized after graduation. I keep thinking it can’t have been that long, that maybe I had tons of moments like these and my brain just repressed them completely. I’m pretty sure my brain has become that good at it by now. I can’t even remember half the shit that went on in my life around this same time last year, but I remember it was bad. I have to rely on other people half the time to tell me what happened in my own life. Now that, I think, says something about how powerful and insidious the human brain is.
All day I’ve been like this,
just hoping that nobody would notice, but they always do. It’s another side that’s so different from the “Me” that isn’t like this; the side people usually see.
People keep asking me, “What’s wrong?” “Are you okay?” “Do you want to talk about it?”
I can’t talk about it. Not coherently, anyway. I can write better than I can speak. That’s how it’s always been. I just say how I feel here and then I’m done talking about it. The feelings are still there, but the desire to say something isn’t as great as it was before.
One of my friends made a joke once about how, whenever I have some kind of problem or secret or something, I end up telling everyone about it. She was definitely correct- I do tell a lot of people whenever something’s bothering me. To be quite honest, I don’t really understand it, myself. The only thing I can think of would be that I do it because I don’t know how to deal with the situation. I can’t cope with whatever the subject is at the time, so I talk to other people about it in the hopes that somehow I’ll figure out how to make myself feel better or solve the problem.
It usually doesn’t ever work. All it does is just give me an outlet to complain about my life problems to other people. And I’d rather not create a reputation for myself as someone who constantly complains and is down in the dumps all the time. It made life difficult in high school. I thought I had learned from that. Perhaps not.
People have asked me since last night if I was alright and if I wanted to talk. I appreciate it, even if my face doesn’t say so. But I don’t. When I was in the hospital, it took me a week to actually bring myself to begin talking about why I was there. I literally couldn’t say anything. I guess I never really got better. I don’t like talking about my problems, when I know there are people in this world who have even worse problems than me.
I mean, what do you say when someone asks you what’s wrong? Do they really expect you to tell them the truth?
Do they really expect you to say, “Oh, I’m sad and depressed because I unexpectedly got severely triggered by going to the gym and walking home, where I saw dozens of attractive men there and on my way back, and that in turn caused me to— once again— take a critical look at myself and what I look like, which then made me remember how much I dislike both of those things and how I wish I could look like all the people I see around me and how I know, deep down in my heart, that I will never be able to look like them no matter how hard I try, which will only make life harder for someone like me, who cannot stand the thought of being alone forever and not having anyone to experience long-lasting mutual romance with, and from there I just spiraled into the suicidal train wreck standing before you” ?
Does anyone honestly expect someone to tell them something so ridiculous when they ask why they’re upset?
If I could bring myself to become an alcoholic (or even to just take a drink of something with alcohol in it), this would be my response:
I’m tired of this bullshit. I’m tired of living life like this. I’m tired of hating everything and all these people I don’t know for stupid reasons. I’m tired of hating myself for hating those things and thinking that way.
I want to stop but I can’t. I give up. I don’t want to talk anymore.
I may not have a body like everyone else, but with any luck, maybe I’ll look just as fabulous as Colin Firth when I’m the age he was in 2009. That’s probably the best I can ever hope for.
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