#chanfictions.depressionthoughts

There is no point, to anything, my dear.

I genuinely hope I do not sound preachy, I just want you to give yourself some time to breathe and just...be.

Hey anon -- it doesn't sound preachy at all. I appreciate the message.

I wish I had more time to just breathe, but life and bills and dogs wait for no one. The issue with even taking this vacation is that all it did was delay and compound the heap of shit I've been struggling to deal with at work because I can't focus and fail to see the point in doing anything because the world is on fire and the country I live in seems like it's just going to implode. I struggle to take time outs like this in general because all it does is delay whatever impending disaster I feel is coming.

The world doesn't care that I can barely get out of bed most mornings. Companies don't care that my depression is kneecapping my ability to work. I can't even bring myself to metion it to them because I fear it will put a target on my back. Falling apart as an adult isn't the same as it is when you're in high school and college -- and I know, because I did that too. Many times. Concessions aren't made -- compromises on work and study don't exist. Delays aren't acceptable. There is only the death machine, hungry for workers. If I bow out to take care of me, all that's going to happen is that I'll lose my job and likely end up somewhere worse, and then we'll do this whole song and dance all over again, but I'll have a heap of debt to contend with on top of everything else.

The world I live in is cold and uncaring. There's a whole lot of "suck it up, buttercup" when you're grown, on your own, and struggling to exist in an environment not designed for malfunctioning brains. The social awkwardness of a shy, depressed teenager wasn't outgrown. In my case, it just grew into a bloated beast that has kept me from being able to do anything because I'm just fucking paralyzed. All. The fucking. Time. I'm drowning in doubt and self-loathing, but all I can do is stuff it and put on that fake fucking smile for Zoom meetings because I need this job.

I'm going to the doctor again to try yet another cocktail of shit to try to convince my brain to function normally, but I don't think that anything is going to work at this point. Maybe back to a shrink or a therapist, but I have doubts about that too. I can tell you everything that's wrong with me and exactly why I am the way I am. I don't need to pay someone $250 an hour to tell me that. I know what broke me on those levels. But my brain was defective straight out of the factory, which makes this all so goddamn complicated.

I do all of the things you're supposed to do to deal with depression on a physical level. Exercise, eating, sleeping right, mindfulness. It doesn't fucking help. Maybe because I do things to the extreme. I don't know. Being anxious, depressed, and struggling to contain the monster of an eating disorder that nearly killed me is a lot to deal with. Eating right makes that monster twitchy, as does exercise. Everything must be perfect. I must be perfect. Sleeping "right" makes the inky creature of gloom and despair slither out from under the bed and into my head to fill it with noise and visions of wooden dolls with straw hair and Glasgow smiles. I feel like I just can't fucking win.

Ugh.

Depression doesn't care if you're rich or poor. It doesn't care where you are or how much your vacation cost. It doesn't care who you burn with your apathy and mood swings. It's just a black hole of endless suffering.

It consumes the sunshine and fouls the colors in the sky.

It deadens the sweet sounds of crashing waves.

It leaves you as a shell of your former self, wondering if you'll ever find all of the pieces again to make yourself whole.

It sneaks up on you, just when you think that maybe you might be okay this time.

I'm having a bad day today, and I shouldn't be. I'm at the ocean, and the sun is shining, but everything is muddy shades of brown and grey because reality is waiting for me on Monday, and I just fucking can't.

I shouldn't complain, though, because there were rescue vehicles patrolling the beach a little while ago. Someone is lost and having a much worse day than me. Wallowing in my own suffering feels so fucking selfish, but here I am.

That feeling when you suddenly gain clarity as to why you are the way you are -- why some fantasies are just so profound that you repeat them over and over in your head, two steps to the left, because your brain is trying so hard to find that thing you have so desperately been missing.

That feeling when you figure out what that thing is.

That feeling when you realize just how utterly fucked everything has been from the very start.

That feeling when you realize it's really no surprise that you ended up like this.

I am sorry you are feeling this way and I wish there was something I could do, anything I could do, to make it better for the both of us.

But all I've got is to tell you that I appreciate your work and you are not alone and I hope you find your way soon.

I'm sorry you're on this river of misery too, anon. It's a lonely, desperate place that no one should have to exist in.

I would really like to know what it's like to be a functioning human -- what it's like to just do your laundry, dishes, make dinner, and go for a run without being crippled by constant existential dread.

How does one go to sleep just to recharge? Sleep only exists to avoid consciousness.

Why do bodies need food? I'd rather be a fucking plant. At least then the sun wouldn't be as likely to catch me on fire for daring to spend time in it.

And socializing? Relationships? People? Why. Why do we do these things. Why is it important to maintain relationships with people you barely care about? What's the point if it's all just superficial? It's not like any of these people actually care about each other. It's all just a facade. Cleverly painted cardboard cutouts.

I really don't get it. I just can't. I have never had "normal". I don't know how to be a fucking person. I'm 33 years old, and I still don't know how to be a fucking person. No one left me an instruction booklet for this shit.

Ugh. I'm frustrated. Frustrated that I'm like this. Frustrated that I can't remember what fun is or what it felt like to be excited about something. Frustrated that I can't write or think or focus on fuckall anything for more than thirty seconds before my brain races off to another topic and I forget that someone was talking to me.

I'm on another doom spiral, so I don't know how frequently I'm going to be posting. I can't focus. Moods are all over the place. I oscillate between apathy and intense melancholy, then swing to rage and back again. I live in my head. My writing has gone to total shit. I don't even feel like I'm in my own body anymore or in my own life for that matter.

So, here we go again. I don't know how long I'll be away or if I'm going to magically post tomorrow like I didn't just admit that I'm losing my mind a few sentences ago. I don't know anything anymore.

Don't rush growing up, kids. Being an adult is miserable.

I don't know what you're going through, but you're not alone 🥰 take care of yourself first! 😘😘 I hope you have an amazing amazing day 🥰🥰

I hope you're doing better now ❤. Depression fucking sucks. But I'm glad my scribblings gave you some relief. I know how hard it can be to escape from the gloom and apathy.

I've been dealing with chronic depression for about 20 years, and it usually gets worse during the winter months. It sucks all of the color from the world around me and leaves me wondering if I'm ever going to find joy in anything again. All I want to do is sleep. Everything feels like a monumental struggle. The checklist of things 'normal' people do every morning is akin to climbing a mountain. Getting out of bed. Eating. Self care. It's just all so fucking hard when all I want to do is go back to a place where the world isn't made up of muddy shades of grey.