Earlier this year I fell into the worst depressive spiral in a long time. I published this to say that you’re not alone in your feelings. Since then I’ve changed my medications and been more vocal, and most days are okay. Trigger warning for thoughts of suicide.
There is no shame in seeking help. Please take care of yourself.
I feel nothing with interlaced spurts of everything so great that I end up crying. My head is tight, and it hurts from weight that I keep putting on myself. Subconsciously, unconsciously. I’m sad but I don’t know what about. I don’t want to do anything. I just want to lay somewhere and let time swallow me up. I keep pushing but it’s hard to move.
Everything hurts but it’s not physical. It’s this pain, like a part of me is broken and aching, but I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t feel right. I don’t feel fully here. I don’t feel anything at all. I’m mourning the person I should be because I don’t know where they went, and I don’t know when or if they’ll ever return. They should be here. They should be happy. But they’re not, and there’s no good reason for it.
This sadness feels bleak, and dark, and sticky, and it refuses to leave. I feel like sleeping but I’m not physically tired. But lying down and letting the hours pass without any sense of work done makes me hate myself more. I don’t know what to do. Everything feels loud, and sharp, and overstimulating. I’m tired. Doing simple things requires so much effort.
I don’t want to die. But I want the pain to stop. I want to come back but I don’t know where I went, or how to bring me back. Does this make any sense? Like someone broke the sad button, and that’s all I feel all the time, and that in itself is so. Freaking. Exhausting. I’m tired of hearing the nothingness in my head.
I just want to sleep. But I feel like I already am, with my eyes open. I can’t cry, but I feel like I’m oozing all over the place. Formless. Taking up space. Weak. Can’t be bothered to even put myself together even though I’m trying, but all the pieces keep sliding back onto the floor like gooey eggshells.
This isn't even a proper headache, just a dull, lifeless ache that forgets to even ache half the time. I forget to breathe under all this sludge. My chest feels heavy.
I want to say I’m broken, but that entails the pieces are clean-cut and sharp. Instead I’m seeping everywhere, bleeding into things, trying to carry myself like too many layers of a gaudy, over-sized and overwrought ballroom gown soaked from rainwater. The pieces don’t neatly fit back in together. The puss needs to drain from the wound, but it all feels rotten and oozing. I want to throw the entire thing away. But I can’t. Because I like living. And this is the only body and mind I have, at least in this life it is. So I have to make it work. I need to carry myself even though my twig-like arms can only carry so much at a time. I’m streaking the carpet, the walls, my own hands with myself. And I hate staining my friends. And I hate staining my boyfriend, like the muck is seeping into them, like I just vomited thick goopy ink into their hands and they look at me kind of shocked and kind of worried and kind of disgusted but completely silent. What do they do with me? I don’t even know what to do with me.
I feel colorless. Wrung out. Damp clothes hung on a line and heavy in the breeze. Not getting dry. Not getting any lighter. And the days keep changing, and life keeps moving, but these clothes remain the same. Damp no matter how much it’s wrung out, temporary because there’s only so many times it could be wrung before the fibers stretch, and the fabric wears, and the whole thing falls to mush like soaked newspaper, ink staining the white.
I feel like crying. I feel like there’s tears slipping in between the cracks. Trapped. Not draining. My ducts are completely dry. A desert. I forgot how to cry, but then it comes back in like a break in a dam and then I can’t stop. My eyes won’t stop leaking, like a rotted ceiling during a thunderstorm.
I don't have anything else to say. But like an awful cold I'll fill back up with crap and goo and crud and I have to expel myself all over again. And my skin will get irritated every time I dry my nose. The skin gets raw. Scabby. Starts peeling. Sore to the touch. Wearing away with wipe after wipe, until it stings, until it bleeds. Until tissue is exposed. And then bone. And then I'll scratch at the bone and scratch and scratch with broken nails until that gives away too and then there's nothing left but brittle bone and mushy tissue and sinew.
Words hang about me and over me, small, black font. Over and over I ruminate, the words in neat little rows filling columns and columns of obsessive, sad thoughts. Unintelligible. Repeating. Repeating over each other, just noise, crashing over and under each other like waves. Like 20 songs that spike at random intervals. I just want quiet. I just want peace. I just want to sleep.
I just want to be well.
I just want to cry.
I just want to hit things. And break things. And cry some more. And have someone tell me that it's okay and that I actually believe them.
I am just one small sad person in this too large of a world.