Am I Legit Depressed or Just Being a Self-Obsessed Emo Faker? a novel by me

Well, not really. I’m writing a different book right now.

Although that does sound like a good title for a memoir come to think of it. Has a catchy ring to it.

If my major depression feels like something that constantly nags in the back of my mind, like a wedgie or an itch I can’t reach, that’s a good day for me. Those are the days I can distract myself just enough to forget all the negativity. I can function, feel like me. I can hold onto ideas and thoughts.

Today was not a good day. Valentine’s Day is never a good day for me. I spent the last one watching TV Land in a hotel room, shaking with the flu.

This is where I start to wonder if I’m just being one of Those Guys. The ones who moan and groan about being “forever alone” and are so self-observed they don’t see all the apparent flaws that make them horrible date material. Maybe I really am that loathsome. Maybe I’m so obsessed with getting through the day that I don’t realize I’m doing a bunch of nasty things, and then I have the gall to wonder why I’m alone. But that’s the thing…I’m not alone? I have family. I have friends. How hard is that for me to realize? I. Am. Not. Alone.

But I feel alone. I feel like I’m the card in a euchre deck you feel stuck with and hate having to use. I feel like the dirt left on a welcome mat. I feel like people whisper behind my back, “Ugh, why does he follow me around? I wish he’d just leave me alone. I can’t wait to get rid of him.”

And all the Valentine’s decorations remind me of that. All the heart shapes just say “See that? No one even wants to give you their heart, much less hold yours.” All the candies and flowers say “Look at all those nice things you don’t deserve.” Again, here I go sounding emo and self-observed again…what a surprise.

I hate that my depression makes being happy for others an impossible feat. I can’t look at someone with their significant other/fulfilling day/lucky things without a deep, ugly sense of jealousy which soon translates into self-loathing. I really wish I could genuinely be happy because other people are happy. But depression blocks me from it. All I can see when I look at their happiness is my own unhappiness reflecting back, reminding me of everything I don’t have. I know I have a lot of good things going for me, but I still feel empty. My brain and my heart send mixed signals, and it ends up forming a murky cloud around me.

Depression makes my head physically ache. It makes my whole body hurt. It pins me down and makes it hard to move. Which is probably a good thing, because I’m afraid that if I was able to move I might do something I regret, like hurt myself. So I sit here and type out this gruesomely personal blog entry and wonder if I have it in me to force out another chapter in my book.

I don’t know why I’m like this. All I know is I got those signals when I was a kid, from other kids around me. And to this day, no matter how hard I try, I still hear those signals all over the place even when they are not there. I am repeating the same bad day from almost eleven years ago over and over.

Like the movie Groundhog Day, I am in an endless cycle of the same words being said to me. Once by others, now by my mental illness. I don’t know how to break free. I wish I knew how.


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