I try to remember, really I do, that this depression isn’t curable. ganesh-6

But it’s so hard sometimes, to put it in my head and keep it there. To remember, when I’m trying to live my life and be happy, that there is this big black monster lurking behind me, waiting for it’s chance to come back and haunt me again. And when it does, when it comes back and sets up shop in my brain and mind, it feels like a betrayal.

I keep thinking that I should be better than this.

Such a trap, that phrase, thought and feeling. That I should be better. Should? I should? Who gets to decide what I should and should not do? Is that something that comes from me, from within myself, or is it an idea from society and culture, something learned and accepted as though it were true?

For that matter, what measure am I using to judge ‘better’ by? What possible metric is there to decide what is better and what is worse?

It feels as though I am failure.

Failing and full of fail and just pure unmitigated failure. Which, in reality land, isn’t even possible, really, but in this darkness, it feels real and true. Inevitable. Inescapable. That failure is my destiny and doom, I can’t get away from it, will never ever be anything at all, that everything I try, and everything I touch, and everything I seek out will turn to dust and ruin around me.

If that’s not an example of negative thinking and self talk, I don’t know what is.

That’s the sort of poison that depression whispers into my head. That’s it, right there. Evil and lingering and fucking oozing all over my life. If you aren’t depressed, haven’t fought against it, then you don’t know how much it pisses me off. I hate it, hate feeling like this, hate knowing that this is a fight I will have again and again, for the rest of my life, and that there’s nothing in the end that I can do about it.

It is truly insidious, depression.

There are only two things I can do about depression. I can either fight it with every breath, every bit of strength in my body, or I can give in. And as seductive as it may be to give in, to give up, to let it win, I refuse. That is death, true death. The death of my soul and heart and everything that makes me human. I will not go gentle, I will rage against the dying of my light.

Was that too much? I think that was too much…

Cheesy poetry is sometimes the last resort, the last defense I have. And I’ll take refuge in any defense at this point. Bad art, cheap poems and weak wine. So this is me, still fighting.

It’s all I can do, to fight. So I will. Even though it’s hard, even though I’m tired, even though it feels so fucking useless. No giving up.