Winter break has been one never-ending hell. And it’s only half finished. Unbelievable. School already feels like a memory from a lifetime ago.
What makes it worse is that I’m supposed to be happy. No school, my birthday, christmas, new years. I miss school because I don’t ever talk to anyone outside of school. My birthday was shitty because I sat around moping for myself. Christmas was also pretty trash, except I had cousins over, so I at least could distract myself a bit. Now New Year’s Eve. I’m supposed to be having a fun time with family and friends (haha, friends), only problem is I spent half the day sleeping and the other half alternating between feeling empty and horribly sad and lonely. It’s 9 pm, I’ve only been awake for 9 hours, and this day has felt endless. Now all I want is a gun in my mouth. My parents are annoyed that I spend my break moping around the house, my friends get annoyed when I tell them my sad life, no one really wants to be around me. I did something mean to my little sister. She’s only 4, and she was trying to be sweet and considerate, I am in such a sorry state that I took it the wrong way and pushed her away. I feel like trash. When people are considerate or kind toward me now I either take it the wrong way, or feel like they do it out of pity.
This blog is the only way I can talk about my problems. The only issue being, the readers of my blog are just that. Faceless people who can listen, but can’t help. I don’t want to tell my parents. They’ll feel bad for me, they’ll be more considerate, they’ll act kinder, I don’t want that. I don’t want to feel like I made them be nice by telling them I have a mental disorder. I’ve always lived my life for others. Went out of my way to do things for people. Was probably too nice. I’m the type of guy to carry around cash, not in case I get hungry, but in case I see a homeless guy asking for money.
I don’t even know why I’m writing these anecdotes anymore. This entire post is disjointed. Makes little to no sense. Why am I writing this? Because I’m in pain. I can feel it. It’s real, it’s a physical pain in the back of my head, like someone is squeezing the life out of me. My parents ask me what’s wrong with me, I tell them I have a headache. It’s a half truth. I feel guilty for telling half the truth. After all, they deserve to know what’s wrong with me. I want everyone to hate me, so I don’t feel bad about dying. The curse of being considerate with depression. I can’t do anything I know would hurt someone else terribly. That’s all that is holding me back. I don’t enjoy life, I have moments of happiness, which fade away into the sea of despair that is my week. Life feels mechanical, like a chore, something that must be done so no one knows anything is wrong. All this blog does is chronicle my descent into myself. It’s also a way to talk to people, because I feel like I have nowhere else to turn. Without this blog I have nothing. This blog is the one way I can have people read about my problems. This blog is like a single crutch for a double amputee. Better than nothing.
The worst part of depression is there is no rock bottom. There’s no point where you can go nowhere but up, because rock bottom is dead. And once you’re dead, you’re dead.
The same song has played in my head throughout the day. Over and over. The Cloud Atlas Sextet. Rather fitting. “Why?” You may ask. Who knows. Least of all me.