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I’m pissed off.

I’m pissed off that I work five days a week and have negative two dollars in my bank account. I’m pissed off that I get yelled at for getting home past curfew because I was crying in a parking lot to my boyfriend, while my brother can have his girlfriend spend the night at our house and have her up in his room with the door closed (did I mention that my room is next door and the walls are thin? Yeah. And meanwhile, my boyfriend can’t set one foot in my room without me getting screamed at). I’m pissed off that it’s been a week of working at my crappy job and the one day where all I want to do is be alone and relax while playing this computer game “Civilization” (my boyfriend got me addicted to it to the point where I want to play it everyday for hours), I don’t have enough money to buy it (or gas, for that matter. Or the spending tickets I’ve acquired. Or the lawyer for the speeding tickets). I’m pissed off that all I ever do is screw up and get yelled at for it. I’m pissed off that I have less than a month left before I leave this place and my boyfriend. I’m pissed off that I have to start taking meds again when all I want is to be normal and stay there. I’m pissed off that this stupid blog is FOR NOTHING, that my friends don’t bother reading it, or anyone else for that matter. Am I helping anyone, or being helped myself? NO. IT’S ALL FOR NOTHING. I hate it. I hate my life right now. I hate that no one in my family wants to spend time with me without criticizing me.  I hate that all my friends are busy. I hate that college is starting. I hate it all. I hate that my boyfriend has had a lot more relationships than I have had, and has slept with more people than I have had, and they’ve all been good and fine and all of my past relationships remind me why I suck and deserved to be treated that way. I hate that I’m thinking all of this and writing all of this, when no one wants to hear it–people want to hear about how being positive is easy and life isn’t scary and that once you have found love it all works out and that confidence will never fail you and your friends from high school will stick by you and won’t end up doing heroin.

And I can’t write about any of that, because I know none of it.

Sometimes, when people look at my scars where I’ve cut myself they joke around and ask things like, “So why’d you carve a giant swastika into your arm?” (which it isn’t, and is offensive), I think, “You’ve never hated yourself like I have, have you? And you’ll never know how sad you can feel inside when you look at your scars and not regret it. Because deep down somewhere I know I took it easy on myself, and if I truly were honest when I had that knife in my hand I wouldn’t be here right now. So go ahead, look concerned or laugh. If you knew what this was like you wouldn’t say a word.” That’s how I feel writing in this blog sometimes. I feel like I’ve put my scars out there in these posts, and in response all people want to do is judge rather than understand.

I don’t need advice and I don’t need sympathy. I need support, I need to know you people are actually there.

(If you even are.)


A Little Thing Called Depression

Let’s get something cleared up.

I get a little sensitive when people use the word “depression”…and that shouldn’t really be a shock since depressants are pretty sensitive people. Apparently, it is, though. I have only ranted to a few people when they have misspoken about depression, but the general feeling I get from people is that throwing that word around like “yo momma” shouldn’t bother anyone. It’s also like the word “gay”, and how people think you’re just there to piss on the fun when you tell them not to use that word in a negative connotation. So basically, “What? I can’t say I’m depressed? Fuck off; stop being so sensitive.”

And that is why I have a love/hate relationship with people.

People say they’re depressed all the time. After a breakup, a sappy movie, a conversation about death or the prospect of getting old and having saggy boobs….”Okay, this is depressing me. Let’s change the subject.” I know I’ve been guilty of saying it so casually as well, which I look back on as trying to convince myself that I had been cured for good. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving myself a free pass or anything. I try to avoid using it unless I’m talking about the real deal.

Look, I’m not trying to be a pain in the ass to people, I’m not trying to tell them what to do. I just want them to know the facts before they say stuff like that. And in the process I suppose it will get you readers (aww I hope I didn’t just jinx that) to know what the straight up business that I associate with the phrase “my depression”.


Depression is different from sadness. It is the prolonged feeling of anxiety, sadness, anger, low self-esteem, stress, grief, or loss of interest in life that can last for weeks, months, and years. Imagine the toughest problem you have ever faced, then imagine it sitting on your shoulders for two years, and you should have a pretty good snapshot of how depression affects people.

The worst part is dealing with it. Dealing with just the mere knowledge that you have such a problem. The questions of “When won’t I feel like this?” “Why isn’t this going away?” “How can I fix this?” “Am I being punished?” “Will I ever find someone who understands?”. Trying to move past a problem that seems to have taken over your life.

And it’s not just one problem. It’s a million problems tied together in a massive web of reasons why you no longer want to get up in the morning. Reasons why you have trouble laughing, feeling carefree, why you can’t stop eating or have stopped eating. Why you’d rather sleep all the time, why you stop putting effort into how you look. It is literally almost a drain on the life you have in you.

During depression I have vowed to starve myself, harbored grim intentions to burn myself, have cut myself, have seriously considered driving into incoming traffic, have even cried in the street at 9:30 at night in my ex-boyfriend’s neighborhood to my school counselor. I have been to rehabilitation, to therapy. I’m not saying this makes me such a superior in the league of depression, I’m just trying to convey how serious it really is. I’ve read stories of people drenching themselves in boiling water and ending up with third-degree burns, of trying to overdose on pills, of getting ulcers from the stress they have. Doing these things is only a representation of the pain people go through, and what can be worse are the people who release none of it at all.

It is serious. It is a disease to some of us, a flaw in our unbalanced brains. To some it can be fixed and to others it will be a continuous part of their lives.

I have gone to therapy, quit, gone back to therapy, started taking antidepressants, started going to an outpatient rehabilitation program, was released from the program, started going to a psychiatrist, continued going to therapy and now also attend a group therapy every week.

And I actually feel pretty good about where I am in life now. I feel stable and calm and trust myself. I have been feeling this way for two months now, and am hoping to continue that stretch throughout this year as well as move past my recent nine month relapse.

I just want people to know, it’s not just feeling “sad” “blue” “down in the dumps”. It’s more.

Boy, what a depressing thought.

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