This was written on the twenty fifth of October of 2015, a few weeks before my mom passed away.
“Time goes by fast when you’re apathetic to everything that surrounds you. Everything is monotonous and rushed, insincere and cold, tedious and harsh. I wonder if life is worth enduring all the pain for, I wonder if withstanding all this bullshit is worth it.
I think a lot, I analyze everything I experience and everyone I encounter, I read to much into everything, I have what I like calling a monkey brain, jumping from one conclusion to the next, never at peace, this means countless sleepless nights and constant fatigue.
I just finished reading a book about alien abductions, and it got my brain going.
I hold a deep resentment for the conclusions people have drawn about self harm. I don’t think anyone self harms because they don’t think they’re worth it or because their faults outnumber their good traits. I’m not self destructive but I’ve had dangerous thoughts, and I think that if I were to cut or self harm I’d do it to honor all my invisible scars, they’d pose as a physical embodiment of all the pain and hurt that stains my frail heart.
Which brings me to the next order of business; suicide. Everyone is all over depressed people, so many people are convinced that they’re helping by medicating them and drowning their worries with doses of serotonin, but here’s what I think.
I think that depression isn’t a war you win, but a battle you fight everyday. There’s no pausing, there’s no stopping. suicide is you giving in to the mocking shrill voices scolding you and criticizing your every move. It’s as persistent as the headache and nausea that follow a bottle of vodka wasted on drowning the memories secured in our past. I think that depression is black, it’s the complete absence of emotion, it’s numbness gnawing away at your brain and eventually driving you to irrational decisions, and I think that suicide is more than despair. The correct way to define it would be indifference, it’s when you’ve got nothing to live for and every reason to die, it’s when everything tastes bland, it’s hollow. It’s the monsters of our pasts haunting us. It’s the consistent need for the perfect peace of nothingness. That’s what I believe.
I’ve known a few people to be depressed, but I’ve never considered that I might be another unhappy resident wasting oxygen and consuming the edible goods available to me. Ive been told that we often project our feelings and find different ways of expressing them. Feelings of despair are often translated into the persistent attempts at making everyone else’s lives better. Maybe that’s me. Maybe I’m overthinking this. Whatever.”