Depression is comfortable to me. I fit in it like a pair of well-worn jeans. I slide into it as easily as I slide into my father’s embrace held tightly as though we are the only things that exist in the universe; my father and I, me and my depression.
I find myself obsessed with mental illness, reading about other more famous sufferers. How do they describe what they feel? Is it similar, how is it different? Why can’t I tap into my suffering and exploit it like they’re able to? Why don’t I have a cooler mental illness? At least paranoid schizophrenics are entertaining. Even my abnormality is boring.
I like to throw my depression like stones into the bodies of those who love me most… or just anyone who happens to be around. “You’re worried about me? Well, I want to die, how do you like them apples?” I use my pain as a nuclear bomb, forever the baby of the family, if I’m hurting, I’m taking you down with me.
Happy people. Normal people. They are my biggest annoyance. It’s like they’re attacking me with their self-worth, don’t they know life is meaningless? Don’t they know happiness is an illusion? Why can’t they just feel this emptiness too? If everyone shared my disease I wouldn’t be diseased, I would be normal. We can be miserable together. Doesn’t that sound nice?
Why write this out? These ugly truths. Why continually pick at scabs and refuse to allow them time to heal? Isn’t this what normal people do?
I just want to be normal.