It’s like walking around with a thin layer of plastic wrap covering my whole body. There’s holes to breathe but it’s not much.
Unhappiness isn’t necessarily the preeminent sign.
That’s the thing about depression. It lurks but it rarely reveals itself. It sits like a stratum of film over everything. That seems to be the best simile. Something that covers other things.
I feel that even this blog has become too visible. That it’s no longer mine. I yearn for anonymity. I yearn for closeness. I yearn to be left alone.
I wish things were different. I wish I were forty–that I could skip all the unfulfilling times–all the times of being lost. I want to sleep and wake up when the show’s over.
I don’t want anyone to read this. I don’t want anyone to comment.
There are mean streaks of codependency and deflation in me. They steal my energy. Make me feel low.
I keep thinking things will change. But I forget that change is something I have to enact on my own.
I don’t like writing when I feel this way. It always comes out jumbled and sad and inarticulate.
Here’s an ellipsis to finish this post since I don’t know what else to say: