“Shut down the gospel singers and
Turn up the old heartbreakers
I’m dying to tell you that I’m dying here.
Throw up the sickly joy and I’ll
Swallow the sweet self-loathing, I’m
Just dying to be unhappy again“
– Frightened Rabbit, Nitrous Gas
My posts have all mostly been connected by one thread, that thread being depression. It’s always been there, whether the background or right in the forefront. Because depression holds dominion over everything I do. At this point it’s become such a core part of who I am that no aspect of my life isn’t affected and influenced by it. This post might as well be titled “for Depression, Depression, and Depression”. When you suffer from depression, your life is depression. Because that’s the way it works. You don’t just get to set aside a portion of your day for moping and crying. It’s always there, hovering over you like a shadow, casting its terrible gloom over everything you touch, corrupting everything it reaches. It’s like the old AA saying: once an addict, always an addict. Once depressed, always depressed.
You want to know how bad it’s gotten? Probably not, but I’m going to tell you anyways. It’s gotten to the point where I don’t know who I am without it. I identify myself as someone who suffers from depression. It’s become a part of my identity. My identity. Not just a phase, or an external environmental thing that shapes me. It’s actually become a part of who I am. I can’t imagine life without it. I’ve become a masochist of sorts, my own corrupt lifestyle corroding itself. This is one problem I can’t just amputate. The infection has spread throughout my entire body, so much so that I have become the disease, and the disease has become me. I am the tumour that needs to be removed. The depression can’t be cured without tossing me out the window along with it.
Or at least that’s how I feel. I’ve been living like this for so long that I don’t know if I can be anything else. I don’t know what I’d be. Specifically I’m scared that without the depression and self-hatred to keep me in check, I’d become just another one of those cocky assholes who doesn’t see the wrong they’re doing. Of the two evils, I’m going with the one I know. At least with this I know I’m an asshole, and I can feel guilty about it and recognize that what I’m doing is wrong. It’s even helped, as twisted as that sounds. It’s driven me towards self improvement several times, even if it hasn’t always worked out. Maybe I deserve to be depressed. Maybe it’s my punishment, and maybe I need to live with it.
I’m also worried that I wouldn’t even want to go back, given the chance. The things I’ve seen, the revelations I’ve come to while depressed, have opened my eyes to a lot of stuff. I’ve seen the bottom of humanity, crawled through the dirt and grime that lines that dark pit. I don’t think I could ever be happy knowing the things I know now. And if I was, it would mean ignoring what I know, lying to myself for the sake of blissful ignorance. I don’t think I could ever do that.
Whatever the case, I don’t know that I’ll ever be rid of it. Maybe it’s not even depression anymore. Maybe it’s just my life. Maybe it’s like Keanu Reeves says: not everyone needs happiness to live. Maybe I’m just predisposed to sadness, and it’s always been in my nature. Maybe it’s just who I am.