Why in the nine hells do I always make myself be so bloody optimistic when I feel this depression coming on? "Oh, maybe this time will be different," I tell myself. "Maybe this time I can claw my way up and not descend into this pit!" I always have to fight it all the way down, and it never does any damn good.
And my roommates. "How do you feel?" they ask me.
Like nothing matters. Like the sunshine isn't warm or bright anymore; like food tastes like sand; like smiles and words are completely meaningless. Like I can't think because of all the terror and pain. Like someone has cut me open from my throat to my belly, slashed up my insides with a razor, sloshed on some acid to boot, and left me to try to cope with life like that.
"Why?" they ask me. "Why do you feel this way? Is it something that happened a long time ago? Is it the pressures you're under right now?"
I don't know why. I just don't know. It just happens. I know when it's happening, I know the signs that it's happening - I can watch myself slide down the slope, I can tell them the symptoms. I can't tell them the cause, and they can't help me.
Why don't I just let myself go down? When I first feel it coming on, I just won't bother with the fight. It takes too much energy. I should just stop showering, stop getting up for work, stop trying.
I'm almost thirty years old and I still have no career, no car, no house, and no boyfriend/husband, because for every year and a half of sanity and strength I get, I spend another year or so in this hellhole.
What's the point of it all, anyway? I should just give up.
I want to die.