So, I have depression. This is a diagnosed thing. Depression. I have it.
Normally I flitter through life saying that I totally used to have depression but I don’t have it anymore, hahaha. And sometimes when I’m very stressed I’ll say that I’m a recovering depressed person, the same way a recovering alcoholic will always be a recovering alcoholic (haha family history). I try to push it behind me and say act like it’s all part of my past, that I’m not depressed anymore. But I am still depressed. It doesn’t way on me as heavily anymore, doesn’t affect all my actions every single day, but it’s still there, every day, like the world’s worst Instagram filter.
And then every few months it gets to me, particularly in March. I don’t want to do anything, ever, even though what I want to do is very easy. I got over depression the first time by always keeping in mind what my job is, in every single location. That works for most places. So I go to work and I work. I go to school and sit in a classroom and ask questions and take notes. But I can’t — I can’t be social. I will go to a classroom and not look at any other students, because no. I can’t. I will go to work and be friendly with customers, but then I’ll sit in the breakroom and keep a book up to my nose and not read the book. I will deliberately avoid visiting places where there will be nothing but sociality going on. I was really looking forward to that dance, depression, thanks.
This post is turning out a lot longer and more rambling than I intended.
A few nights ago I cried myself to sleep.
I’ve barely started on this paper due tomorrow. I’ve been saying for three days that I’ve been working on it in my room, but then I hide in my room and sit under the covers and stare at my bookshelves or my lizards. Or I’ll spend hours on imgur and facebook. Anything, really, to avoid the introspection that comes from writing. Even if I’m just thinking about my opinions on the Chinese Cultural Revolution, it’s too introspective. I don’t want to touch it.
Today I went on facebook and then flipped through my boyfriend’s timeline. I’m not sure why. That was going to be the main point of this entry, actually. I was going to laugh at myself for feeling insecure about him talking to other girls in 2007. I was going to post a picture like this:
Which I totally did anyway. But then I felt like talking about my feelings. And I can’t stop. I can’t stop writing about anything other than Chinese history. I can’t stop thinking about myself. All I want to say is horrible things about myself, like I’m ugly and not going to succeed in anything and I’m going to lose my boyfriend and I’m going to get fat and I’m not smart and nobody likes me and I’m not creative and I’m just a waste of resources on this earth. Sometimes I read about Laurence Oates and people like that and I wonder if I could really assess my life and do something like that. It’s not introspection. It’s just horrible obsessive thoughts, this weird OCD that makes me constantly need to control my actions by thinking hateful things about myself. Where is the line between vanity and pride? Where is the line between self-hatred and humility?