I’m depressed and I blame myself.
I won’t tell you that I am happy right now because I am not. Sorry if this comes as some sort of shock. I’m sorry if I make you or someone else uncomfortable because I am unhappy.
When I think about what has gotten me here I could come up with a list of people and circumstances to blame for every thought of inadequacy and failure I’ve ever had.
I could blame my mother, who pushed me to do well in school to the point where if I don’t get straight A’s on every report card I consider myself a complete utter embarrassment, although my mother has loosened her strict sentiments about such things. She also married a man, not my father, who exposed me to the abuse of alcoholism and the cycle of domestic violence. I used to cry in my closet, alone and afraid.
Or I could blame my father, who during my younger years, when I needed him the most, when I needed to trust him, who basically ignored me for years. I played with Legos and his dog. I could blame him for calling me socially inept and not appreciating my introversion, making me feel that I was somehow lacking in personality for not wanting to wave and smile at every stranger and neighbor I had no interest in.
I could list a whole lot of other situations and other people. I could do that. I want to. It’s easy to blame others.
I however do, although it pains me, blame myself.
When I state that I’m depressed, I mean I am depressed in the ways no one wants to talk about. I think about what it would be like to not wake up or how quickly my consciousness would fade if I were to plummet two stories from my window. I think about the final thoughts I would have. Would I regret it? Would I wish I could sprout wings and just seconds before my spine will break on a parked car or the cold concrete below?
I get up somedays, forcing myself to plod through the day. It pains me when people smile at me because for a moment I believe that their smiles are genuine, that they are for me. But then I remember that smiles are automatic; they are programs. They aren’t special.
Like most things in life, what makes our own existence unique are just differing combinations of the same stuff that everyone else has access to. A smile from a friend, a touch of an arm, the longing gaze of a lover… things that are taken for granted.
The funny thing about depression is not the thoughts of hurting myself, the utterly painful apathy, or the numbness of my mind but is just how acutely sobering it is. I’m in pain — I can see that clearly without the biases that others might take to explain it. I don’t say that life sucks and it has nothing to do with me. Life sucks because I refuse or just lack the mechanisms and neurons to enjoy the brightness of existence that stems directly from me. No one else.
I see the end. I feel the termination of this race and I know it is coming sooner than I would like. But it is.
At 22, I understand that one-fifth of the time I’ve spent here is already gone. It’s gone. It’s never, ever coming back. I know that I’ll be forty tomorrow. Then 60. Then 80. Then it’s anyone’s bet… would I get another 5 years? 8? 9?
I could blame the draw of the cards or my parents or my brain for giving me such a shitty deck of cards to draw from to make up my existence. But neither my brain, my parents, or life really had anything to do with it.
All I know is that I’m depressed. I struggle to get up in the morning. I avoid people. My attention and concentration comes and goes and I have no patience for frustrations so I burst out in anger or just retreat.
This is going to be another post about mental illness and shit that will float about on this platform. No one will read this. No one will care to give an awful writer like me a chance because I don’t even give myself one.
I don’t blame anyone. Blaming myself has just become an itch that I scratch until it’s bleeding and infected. For that, there is no one more culpable that me. That’s just a fact.