It Is What It Is

I wish I had known you when they did.

At least I would have had a turn at ruining you, just like they did.

Perhaps I could have not known you at all.

Now, I get what’s left of you, thanks to them, and thanks to you for allowing it.

At least with them, you found it fun. Now, it’s just an annoyance.

 

Do I feel any sympathy or empathy for you?

No. I believe you liked it.

You show no shame in the nasty things you have done.

Why would I feel for you?

 

If our pasts make us who we are today, I’m a self-loathing, self-centered, womanizing drug addict.

What does that make you?

The Sadness

I had a fraction of a huge conversation last night about the subject of suicide and depression. It was just a small talk. I stated that I don’t understand how there aren’t more suicides everyday than there already are, especially when dealing with depression. I have bouts with depression every day. It’s extremely painful. My last post was about feeling hope, and was rather positive. I do have hope, and I try to remain positive. The depression only bleeds through and gives me doubt every now and then. However, sometimes the hope and happiness bleed through the depression and makes me doubt my happiness. It’s a constant battle, and it’s amazingly cruel and painful.

The worst part about being depressed is how it affects other people. It makes them feel like they are the cause, or that they are unable to make you happy, or that you just have a bad, negative attitude on life. It makes people wonder how the feelings of sadness, hopelessness, and loneliness are even possible when everyday interaction and smiles are exchanged. It’s difficult to explain. I can’t blame anything in particular for making me sad. I can’t explain what I’m sad about. All I can say is that it’s nobody’s fault that I feel depressed when I am depressed. There isn’t anything that can be done. They say that meds help, but I have yet to find one that does. It’s this huge weight of dread, guilt, hopelessness, and fear that lays heavy on my heart. On my soul, if you believe in that type of thing. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there, and it’s miserable. Maybe it’s because I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing with my life, accompanied by not knowing what it is that I’m supposed to be doing with my life? Maybe it’s because I neglect the passions in my life? It feels like if I want to spend more time doing the things that bring me passion and happiness, those around me would get neglected. Maybe I get sad because I’ve never done the things that I’ve truly wanted to do. Who knows? Like I said, I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there, nonetheless.

The funny thing is, I feel more comfortable writing this out rather than saying it to someone. Rather than saying it to anyone, really. I’m afraid I’ll be made fun of, or completely misunderstood. I feel that no one would listen or take me seriously enough because it’s so confusing. It’s frustrating to feel like this. It’s frustrating to feel like there is no way to explain what’s going on in my mind to anyone, not even professionals. Feeling like that makes it seem as though I am truly alone. That I have to put on the act of being okay when I’m not, because no one understands, and if they did, they wouldn’t care. They wouldn’t take me seriously. They would point the finger at me and say that it’s all my fault for feeling the way I do. I’m a strange cookie, I guess. I can put on a game face and talk to anyone. I can put on a game face and connect with anyone. The problem is, that gives off a false impression that my world is great, and that nothing is ever wrong. Maybe I just think too much? Who knows? The show must go on either way.

There are some cures to my depression. When I feel so hopeless that it’s hard to breath, I get in touch with my best friend and talk about music. I talk about the music we used to love when we were young. We talk about members of bands that we’ve always adored, we talk about different types of music, we talk about shows we used to go to, shows we would like to go to, and how much things have changed. We talk about things that we know. It takes my mind off of everything. It makes me feel like I did when I was young. I would like to say that it makes me happy, or that it makes me remember a time when I was happy. The truth is, I don’t know if I’ve ever truly been happy. The even worse thing is, I can’t blame anyone for my unhappiness. Things are so much easier when you can blame someone or something. I can’t. This will be misconstrued as me being a crybaby, or me being an asshole. No one is to blame. I guess it’s just how I’m wired. I don’t want anyone thinking that they have ever been the cause of my unhappiness, or that I am or have ever been unhappy due to them. That’s not the case whatsoever. The people in my life give me joy, the people in my life give me purpose, the people in my life are the only things that bring a sense of hope and happiness that I have. Without them, all is lost.

Enough rambling. Back to my point. It is surprising that there aren’t more suicides. The feeling that I experience sadness every day. When I’m not feeling it, I still know it’s there waiting to rear up its ugly head. I’ve been extremely selfish before, but I’m not selfish enough to end it due to the pain that my depression causes me. I have too many people who I would let down if I were gone. I have too much life to live to let go. I’d be a horrible therapist, because I couldn’t sit and tell someone that the pain is worth living through. I hope it is. All I know is that, tomorrow is another day. It’s another day that is unknown. You never know what tomorrow is going to bring. It may be good, it may be bad, it may be exactly the same as the day before. The point is, you are never going to know unless you live to see it. Hold on.