I wanted this blog to be about writing, originally. And storytelling, and TV and cinema. But it seems like the only story I can talk about right now is mine. Sorry.
Nobody ever promised that depression always had to make sense. Or fight fair. Or take a break. Or even go away. Does it make me a pessimist to admit these things?
I have a friend… who tells me with kind and earnest conviction that depression doesn’t exist. She doesn’t believe in it. She further told me that people–not including herself, she added–would probably want to hang out with me more if I wasn’t so… down. Yes, I can believe that would be true. I know she means well. Friends usually do.
I didn’t say much in response. I was a little upset–and astounded to hear her say those things. It feels real. Its effects are definitely real. I suppose, then, in a way that depression is a lot like a black hole. Which, fittingly, not everyone believes exists as well.
There are days…
Well. There are days, and some of you will understand that undeniable, unavoidable sense of despair. So very much like a black hole, with a pull so strong, it’s really all you can do to carry on with things and not collapse in on yourself. But, I think, people will see… something. They usually call it moping.
You see, depression can’t be solved with a smile, though my friend tried and she did make me smile. We can still do that sometimes, though. The muscles in our face remember. But it’s just a smile. It’s not a cure. Because sadness is just a symptom. It’s not the disease.