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rough day

March 24, 2012

Sometime I feel like screaming. Loudly. Violently. So hard it hurts. It’s like things get so bottled up inside of me that I feel like I’m going to burst, like there’s a dam inside of me that has to give way and release all the pent up anger, frustration, sadness, and whatever else I have seething in my soul.

I’ve known for a long time there’s something different about me from most people psychologically. I’m not sure what exactly, but something. I’ve always had trouble expressing the things that I’m feeling; even to the psychiatrist I never bothered to go back to after the first visit. I’ve self-diagnosed myself as either manic depressive or clinically depressed, though, having long periods of sullenness interspersed with bursts of childlike happiness that temporarily displace the despair I normally feel. I also see things differently, being more perceptive of the negative in everything than the positive. I have little patience and a quick temper. The smallest things make me rage inside.

I hate being this way, especially because I feel like there’s nothing I can do to change it. I’ve tried medication (Paxil). I’ve tried talking, writing, and thinking about it. I’ve tried altering my lifestyle. But no matter what I do, no matter how many things I try to do to counteract my negative thoughts and moods, they just keep coming back even more relentlessly than before. I think everything sucks. I think everyone hates me. I hate myself. And the whole time, I just want to be happy and enjoy life and make friends and all the other things regular people seem to be able to do with less effort.

I think a lot of the people who suffer from depression and end up killing themselves do so just because they’re tired—tired of always feeling like this; tired of constantly fighting it and trying to get other people to understand what their world is like. They’re simply worn out. Day after day of feeling this way and fighting to keep sane, to keep smiling and trying to act normal despite it all, just eventually wears you down until you don’t have any energy left to fight back anymore.

Depression is like an ocean, and you’re in the middle of it. Whereas other people have boats and only rarely fall into the depths of despair before managing to pull themselves back up, people with depression don’t have their own boat and are constantly treading water. Eventually there comes a point when they simply get too tired to continue and stop swimming. It’s not that they’re weak, they’ve just been pushed to the limits of their endurance for so long that everything simply gives out, and the ocean greedily pulls them under. For them, death is almost a respite, a sanctuary from the never ending torment their mind inflicts upon itself.

That’s how I see it, anyway; how I sometimes feel. If it wasn’t for all the friends and family members who have held out their hands and held me up over the years, even for a few moments, I might have stopped swimming a long time ago.

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