So the stupid thing is that I'm at the point where part of me wants to give up again. I'm at the point where I want to throw in the towel. Thanks, life, it's been fun. But I'm done now. You've become too cold and hard and bitter. You've become too much trial and not enough triumph.
I know, I know. By virtue of me still being here that's a triumph, right? At least that's what some people would say. You're strong. You've been through so much and you're still standing.
Yes, I'm standing alright.
Well, more like kneeling. Not on-my-knees praying kneeling, no, not like that. But on my hands and knees, head hung low in despair, my hair sticking to my face thanks to the tears. Sobs racking my body as I wish for a swift end.
That's not what I would call a triumph. No.
Or is it? I'm still alive, I guess. My heart still beats though at times I will it to stop. My lungs still fill with air, even when they burn with exertion from crying.
I still function. I still work and carry on as though everything were okay. I would call that a triumph. Still being able to function.
So there's that, I guess.
I have a hard time finding meaning to things. Life in general, of course, but also of things. Just, everything. I get to where I feel so empty and hollow and lost that I don't know how I can possibly go on. Everything gets so bleak and I get tunnel vision. Except it's not really tunnel vision. No. It's like everything has expanded, blown apart into minute detail but it's all foggy. Foggy and thick and slow and the emptiness is all consuming and I feel myself sinking in the sludge. It feels dark. And cold. And I will my heart to stop - even if for a moment - to give me reprieve. It feels like I'm drowning. And as I try to fight it, to scramble out of the dark and cold and slowness I marvel at how insignificant I really am and how nothing I do truly matters.
But it does matter. I remind myself of this. It does matter. You matter. The depression is talking. It whispers in your ear and tells you lies and you really do matter. Life has meaning.
I force myself to look for meaning. There's the obvious ones: family, friends . . . and more subtle ones. The obvious ones give me grounding, the subtle ones give me hope.
Ahhh, hope. I've been told that as long as I'm breathing, there's hope. I'd like to believe that. It's another thing I remind myself of when depression is whispering softly in my ear.
Depression doesn't whisper softly though. Not usually. It's firm and direct and demanding. That's the problem with it. I can tell myself all of the positive things in the world and the depression throws its head back and laughs. It counters every positive with a negative as I scramble and climb and try to keep my head above the darkness. It bares its teeth and grins at me, a beastly, ghastly thing. It holds me fast.
But then my resolve strengthens and I find a new way to fight, a new way to counter.
And I'm trying yet another new way. I don't know if it will work. I don't know if it will help. I don't know if depression will release its stronghold on me. Its grip is tight and fierce and convincing.
I am, however, still breathing.
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