Some people have a legitimate reason to feel depressed, but not me. I just woke up one day feeling sad and helpless for absolutely no reason.
It’s disappointing to feel sad for no reason. Sadness can be almost pleasantly indulgent when you have a way to justify it – you can listen to sad music and imagine yourself as the protagonist in a dramatic movie. You can gaze out the window while you’re crying and think “This is so sad. I can’t even believe how sad this whole situation is. I bet even a reenactment of my sadness could bring an entire theater audience to tears.”
But my sadness didn’t have a purpose. Listening to sad music and imagining that my life was a movie just made me feel kind of weird because I couldn’t really get behind the idea of a movie where the character is sad for no reason.
Essentially, I was being robbed of my right to feel self pity, which is the only redeeming part of sadness.
And for a little bit, that was a good enough reason to pity myself.
Standing around feeling sorry for myself was momentarily exhilarating, but I grew tired of it quickly. “That will do,” I thought. “I’ve had my fun, let’s move on to something else now.” But the sadness didn’t go away.
I tried to force myself to not be sad.
When I couldn’t will myself to not be sad, I became frustrated and angry. In a final, desperate attempt to regain power over myself, I turned to shame as a sort of motivational tool.
But, since I was depressed, this tactic was less inspirational too to a greater extent than merely a agency to oppress myself alongside hatred.
Which too then made me to a greater extent than frustrated too abusive.
And that made me even to a greater extent than sad, too so on too so forth until the alone agency to adequately limited my sadness was to crawl real like shooting fish in a barrel across the floor.
The self-loathing too shame had ceased to live fifty-fifty slightly productive, but it was also tardily to larn dorsum at that point, so I merely kept going. I followed myself merely about similar a bully, narrating my thoughts too actions alongside a constant flow of abuse.
I spent months shut in my house, surfing the internet on top of a pile of my own dirty laundry which I set on the couch for “just a second” because I experienced a sudden moment of apathy on my way to the washer and couldn’t continue. And then, two weeks later, I still hadn’t completed that journey. But who cares – it wasn’t like I had been showering regularly and sitting on a pile of clothes isn’t necessarily uncomfortable. But even if it was, I couldn’t feel anything through the self hatred anyway, so it didn’t matter. JUST LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE.
Slowly, my feelings started to shrivel up. The few that managed to survive the constant beatings staggered around like wounded baby deer, just biding their time until they could die and join all the other carcasses strewn across the wasteland of my soul.
I couldn’t even muster up the enthusiasm to hate myself anymore.
I merely drifted around, completely unsure of what I was feeling or whether I could genuinely experience anything at all.
If my life was a movie, the turning point of my depression would have been inspirational and meaningful. It would have involved wisdom-filled epiphanies about discovering my true self and I would conquer my demons and go on to live out the rest of my life in happiness.
Instead, my turning point mostly hinged upon the fact that I had rented some movies and then I didn’t return them for too long.
The late fees had reached the point where the injustice of paying any more than I already owed outweighed my apathy. I considered just keeping the movies and never going to the video store again, but then I remembered that I still wanted to re-watch Jumanji.
I put on some clothes, put the movies in my backpack and biked to the video store. It was the slowest, most resentful bike ride ever.
And when I arrived, I found out that they didn’t even have Jumanji in.
Just as I was debating whether I should settle on a movie that wasn’t Jumanji or go home and stare in abject silence, I noticed a woman looking at me weirdly from a couple rows over.
She was probably looking at me that way because I looked really, really depressed and I was dressed like an eskimo vagrant.
Normally, I would have felt an instant, crushing sense of self-consciousness, but instead, I felt nothing.
I’ve always wanted to not give a fuck. While crying helplessly into my pillow for no good reason, I would often fantasize that maybe someday I could be one of those stoic badasses whose emotions are mostly comprised of rock music and not being afraid of things. And finally – finally – after a lifetime of feelings and anxiety and more feelings, I didn’t have any feelings left. I had spent my last feeling being disappointed that I couldn’t rent Jumanji.
I felt invincible.
And hence began a tiny rebellion.
Then I swooped out of at that spot similar the Batman too biked abode inwards a blaze of defiant glory.