It’s one of the biggest tags on my blog.
Yet I haven’t talked about it.
I feel like I still don’t want to talk about it.
Depression is probably the one illness I do have. The one thing that keeps me from being the ‘me’ that everyone sees me as. The one thing that keeps me from being happy. I hate it. I hate it with a burning passion and I will continue to hate it for the rest of my life.
It’s scary. It doesn’t overwhelm me day in and day out. No, it’s a lot more sudden than that. It’s a beast that comes out only when it wants to and only when you don’t want it to. It hits you at the worst times. Terrifying.
I cry spontaneously. I just do. I’m overwhelmed by this feeling, this feeling of sadness and loneliness. I could be talking to five or six of my friends and still have that feeling erupt from nowhere. I turn silent. No one notices. They never do. Thank the heavens for that.
It’s not painful. Not physically painful that is. Mentally. Only slightly. For the most part, I can keep it under control. Sometimes it just swells up inside and bursts out without my having a say in it. It becomes uncontrollable if I keep it in check. It becomes stronger than my own will. That thought is terrifying. I don’t like talking about depression. I don’t. It only makes the feeling stronger if I acknowledge its presence.
I don’t think it’s as bad to the point where I need medication. I’m trying to control it so I don’t ever have to take it. I think I’ll be fine. I’ve become more and more comfortable with the feeling over time. It used to be a lot worse. I used to be a lot more estranged due to it. My friends never got why. I don’t think I get why either. I hate being different from “normal”. I hate that there’s such as thing as “normal”.
I think some of my stuffed animals are stained with tears.
I’m still a child and I hate that too.
Depression reverts me into this child-like state. This helpless being. This immature crybaby. I hate it. Hate it. Hate it.
I know I’m more mature than that child.
Yet, why can’t I be that way?