the problem with being depressed is that you can’t see past your own skin. it’s like being caught and weighed down inside thick, gooey sludge. first it slows you down, and you can feel it gradually immobilizing you.
why, yes, i believe i’ve just created a “depression=the blob” theory. the blob. not blog. you know, that jello-esque man-eating monster that made steve mcqueen want to scream like a girl? i think i’ll call it the blob complex. wouldn’t carl jung be proud.
so the other problem with the blob complex is that all you can think about is being depressed. about how you’re stuck inside the aforementioned thick, gooey sludge. you’re constantly wrestling with the limitations of your own mind, but its like struggling in quicksand. you can’t just “be” depressed and ride it out. instead, you rebel against it pointlessly and seemingly endlessly. and soon, you’re seeking primordial comforts like curling up into little balls. you start thinking it would be best if you didn’t subject your friends to this nonsense. and you think a lot about being in bed and wearing your soft pants all day, every day.
depression compromises your stories. it makes you feel old and lose your wonder. and although you can see the sun, you just can’t feel it on your face. no amount of gentle honesty to one’s self, or determinations to stop obsessing, or “god, this is ridiculous” thoughts, or resolve to “get over yourself” can help you feel free. it dominates every aspect of your life. from any conversation that dares venture past “hi, how are you” to the most trivial tasks.
and one of the hardest parts is that you know that the positive, funny, idealistic, functional you is inside, somewhere. and you miss that you. and you mourn that you. a lot.