I’m typing this because I couldn’t find a pen. I’ve never kept a journal and I honestly don’t believe I’ll be continuing this one. I have a great desire to be understood but I do not know myself. My childhood is bathed in nostalgia and half-memories. I spent most of my childhood aspiring to be an adult, or more “grown-up”. This will eventually lead to my downfall. I have a real difficult time enjoying the moment. Any moment. This has mutated into a form of nihilism I’ve come to know. My lack of caring is difficult to explain, as it’s not a pessimistic view of the world but an understanding that I’m not able to shake. Meaning. Purpose. Awareness. These words plague my mind as I lay sleepless in my darkened studio. As a kid, I was afraid of heights not because I might fall, but because I might want to jump. Knowing this, I believe I’ve unconsciously set up boundaries for myself so I don’t, “jump off the roof”.
I’ve learned that depression is a room in a house. My house only has one room. I can redesign it all I’d like, but it’s still a room. When I was younger, I didn’t know what to call this sadness, this extreme nonchalance towards existence. I’d sometimes think I’d be better as a memory. Living only in someone’s mind as a figment seems more appropriate than living in your own mind as yourself. You’re happier then.
My pity party has a guest list.
I’m probably writing this because I’m tired of vocalizing it. We are all tired. We are all sad. And we’re very close to being tired of trying. I believe this is why I attempt to be so open about my depression is because I know I’m not the only one; I’m just tired of pretending I’m okay. I truly don’t know what my “purpose” is but I’d like to think I’m akin to a catalyst. Foolishly, I wanted to be the biggest thing there was simply to massage my knotty ego but my joy lies in the community. My self-preservation meter is so low, I put myself through turmoil simply to feel something. This euphoric idea of feeling something has been within reach only a few times.
I often fantasize about turning it all off. My phone, my video games, my music, my friends, my family, my head. Going somewhere to just be. Being is freedom in its truest form. I believe that I’m addicted to what people think about me. Rather it is true or false, good or bad. It’s this addiction that gives me a false sense of entitlement. It’s this addiction that’ll get me killed. Last year I cried as I forgave myself for not being who I wanted to be by my age. There’s something disturbing about living in a future that you didn’t imagine for yourself. I’m turning 30 this year and some strange part of me is waiting to wake up. My lack of agency has ruined career opportunities and damaged friendships. I walk a fine line of being unbearably needy and excessively confident. My mood shifts like wavelengths.
At the end of this, I’d like to encourage you to be as transparent as you can be with yourself and your loved ones.
I really love this and feel this deeply thank you for sharing this you are really awesome I really enjoy your writings have you ever written any poetry by chance?