Beia

Officially, I've been diagnosed with depression. Realistically, I feel I should be straight-jacketed and taken away. Even as I listen to myself talk about my latest 'tangible' theory behind my depression to whomever will listen to me, parts of my brain call BS. It's like I'm fighting with myself, and the fight often turns against other people: too often they're the same people trying to help me. These people are saints and I haven't a clue as to why they still put up with me. And then, the self-pitying parade stomps through my head and my ever-diminishing sanity screams for it to stop. My loved ones scream for it to stop. But there's no stopping, and I'm at a loss. I don't know what to do: I judge myself, then irrationally (or rationally - who knows?!) begin to believe that others are judging me just the same. In turn, I shut down. I can't talk to others because I don't want to waste their time, as I so often feel like I'm wasting my own. And the pointless, one-sided, self-demoralizing arguments continue on...and on and on.

Today marks five years of diagnosed depression. Five years of taking the same medication diligently, every day. Five bloody years of ups and downs; days of thinking I'm cured followed by weeks of uncontrollable despair. I'm tired of it. I'm tired of it for you.