“I’m fine.”

Have you ever just felt so dead inside because you’re trying to be something you’re not? Well… I am not happy. I’m depressed and miserable. Why do I waste so much time pretending I’m not? I know the answer to this and its honestly kind of sad. The reason I spend so much time pretending Im not depressed is because of the people around me. They will judge me or they won’t be able to handle it when the truth comes out and so for their sake, I pretend I’m fine. 

I wake up, have a hot cup of coffee, and put on my “I’m ok” face for work. In reality I am not ok. What I am is hopeless, unmotivated, lazy, sad, worrisome, full of despair, dark, mean, angry, loathsome, and gloomy. I’m afraid for anyone to know how depressed I am… so afraid even that I’m too scared to get professional help. I don’t know where to begin looking for a therapist or even if I want to look at all. I would have to share my inner most demons with some stranger… how do you even begin that process? “Hi I’m August and my deepest darkest secret is…” And it’s not like writing a blog, I share my secrets with strangers every day, but this would be different. This would be face to face. I would be held accountable, out loud in real life, for what I was saying and doing and how I was acting. I would be ripped open and exposed and possibly even feel worse about myself. I’m just not ready for that yet.

Even though I know deep down inside that I need help, theres always this little hope in me that one day I’ll reach a glorious epiphany and all my troubles will wash away with the tides. There’s also a part of me that knows I mustn’t be the only one who thinks that. I can’t be the only one who needs help and doesn’t want to find it. I’m sure I’m not the only one who thinks they can solve their own problems, be their own knight in shining armor. If I am the only one who thinks this… well then I must be more fucked up than I realized. I just want to be there for myself. Love and support myself. But thats the problem in the first place isn’t it? I’m so full of self hatred and disgust that I can’t be happy. I can’t do those things that I need myself to do, and yet Im too cowardly to find someone who can. I keep telling everyone “I’m fine” when I’m not.


Sometimes I disappear.

I love writing. I may not be very good at it sometimes but sitting down and getting all of that emotion out of me, no matter what emotion it is, always feels good. So why when I’m depressed do I run from writing like the plague? It’s actually pretty simple now that I’ve given it some thought.

I feel like I’m not good enough.

When I’m down and feeling particularly sorry for myself I can’t bring myself to write… in any medium. Not paper, not blogging… I hide from words like a scared child. At my best I am still probably my most harsh critic. I write and rewrite things a million times over. Even then, when I hit publish I don’t feel like it was good. Or I tear the pages out of my notebooks while crying and listening to Taylor Swift and throw them in the trash where they can hide in the bottom of the can. And this is when I’m not depressed. When I am, though, I won’t even let myself try. Im afraid of what will come out. I know no matter how “good” it is that it’ll just be bad. I won’t like it. I’ll hate it. I’ll throw it out. Plus being depressed takes all my energy I don’t know if I could manifest something half way decent even if I did try.

That’s why I disappear. The funny thing about depression is… you’ll never know how long it’ll last. Sometimes I feel better after a day or two… and sometimes like recently, it’s been weeks since I was able to breath. When I come out of a depressive low it’s like starting life all over again. I have to take baby steps back into reality or I might end up spiraling back down. I usually don’t rush into things head on when I’m finally coming up for air but writing helps me breath. When I am starting to feel better, it’s usually the first thing I do.

I grab my computer, catch up on all the beautifully written words I’ve missed, and start writing again.