“I’m in need of the answers,
Searching for questions,
In love with being broken-hearted”
– Caught a Ghost, Time Go
Let’s just get one thing straight. I know I’ve romanticized my depression. Don’t ask me why I would even do something as stupid as that, because your guess is as good as mine. Maybe I think it makes me edgy; a special snowflake who can justify being a total fucking weirdo. Or maybe it’s a coping mechanism, something that makes it seem like kind of a positive thing, to try and ease the weight of it all. Maybe it has something to do with the correlation between famous artists and depression; maybe I’m subconsciously depressing myself in order to legitimize my claim as an artist, like somehow these hard times will one day make it all worth it by compensating my suicidal streak with writing material.
Sometimes I wonder if I even want to get better. Part of me likes being depressed. It’s easier, sometimes, to just use my mental illness as a kind of umbrella to block out everything I want to avoid and blame it on the depression. Part of me doesn’t want to find the answer. I tell myself I’m looking for it when I know that what I’m really doing is just digging up new questions, new reasons to feel depressed. I’m not looking for a reason to be happy; I’m looking for reasons to stay sad. Part of this is the romantic in me; the part that’s convinced that there is a beauty, a purity to sadness, that happiness cannot match in all it’s ignorance. But another part of it is the fear. It’s easier to stay where you are, where you know the territory, to just walk in circles pretending to search knowing full well deep down inside that you’re not going anywhere. At least this way I’m sticking with the devil I know. To make a change is to face the unknown, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
Whatever the hell might be going on up in that shitshow of a mind I’ve been burdened with, I just felt like I ought to put that out there for you guys. I’m worried that people might get that vibe reading my work and think that I’m purposefully using depression as a kind of draw-in for readers. Which I kind of am, I guess is the point I literally just made, but what I’m trying to say (what I think I’m trying to say) is that I’m not doing it on purpose purpose. It’s like a subconscious thing that I just so happen to also be aware of.
Okay. Whew. Let’s try that again. What I’m trying to say is that this blog is me. This blog is a reflection of me, warts and all. It’s an echo of my existence, as I once put it, and my existence is not beautiful. It’s contradictory, it’s confusing, and it’s dark. And sometimes that means I’ll say things purely for the shock value of it, for the chance to deliver a one-punch knockout, a dramatic one-liner to conclude the paragraph. I’m a writer, after all. It’s literally in my job description to dress things up and dramatize them. And sometimes you lose sight of the line between fiction and non-fiction.
So maybe the lesson for today’s post is to take what you read with a grain of salt. Or just down the whole shaker and worry about your cholesterol later. Because when dealing with people as fucked up as I am, you can never really be sure who’s talking.