I feel nothing.

Empty.

Devoid of anything.

Disliked.

Despised.

Hated.

It’s a strange feeling.

Alone.

Afraid.

Crying.

Dying.

It’s the end…

Sometimes it takes a major event in your life to realise you have no control over anything you do, to realise you’re just a pawn on a huge chess board, were someone else is the player. It’s a frightening insight. Control is the one thing everyone thinks they own. Everyone clings to the ability to choose your own destiny

Its not so.

Things pile up, and sooner or later it all gets too much. Fear and loneliness consume you. It’s a disease that spreads faster than any cancer. It takes deep root and there is no doctor in the world that can remove it. In the end you realise that being alone is how it will always be. No one else gives a fuck.

As I sat in my 8 by 6 cell, I wondered where my life was going. I wondered if there was any point. I wondered why the hell I was even born. That kind of self-loathing has a way of driving the demons into your soul. Desperation to be saved is a running theme in your mind. But no one ever rescues you from despair. You know you are alone. Alone with the memories that haunt you every waking moment.

I’ve made mistakes in my life, god who hasn’t? But I punish myself more than any jury in the world would. Its part of the self-hatred circle. If I can hate myself as much as this, I can explain why I do things that hurt people. I can justify my loathing of the world and everyone in it. Worthlessness creeps into my thoughts. What am I worth? Nothing. What is my purpose? Nothing. I sigh as the dark thoughts consume me again. I could just end it all. Who would miss me? Darkness creeps in on icy wings. Could I really do it? Of course not, I’m a coward. I take the easy way out, bury my head in my hands and sob brokenly, praying for an absolution that I know will never come. God has forgotten me.

People say depression doesn’t exist, that it’s in the mind. A hypochondriac’s way of being permanently ill without needing proof. It is not so. Depression is there when you wake up, its there on the bus to work, its there on your lunch break, its there when you get home, its there when you go to sleep. Like a faithful puppy, it never leaves you. People think you are weak. You fall apart over the simplest of things. Sometimes even running out of milk can push you over the edge. “Normal” people don’t understand this. They call you a child. they say you lack strength of character. They call you a freak. It adds to the self loathing. It makes you feel even more worthless than you already are. You’re broken but no one understands. No one understands that even getting out of bed at times is so hard. That sometimes you physically do not want to move. That you do not want to face the world outside and their accusing stares. That sometimes even talking to the postman is so stressful you feel like slamming the door in his face. You can’t even venture outside your house anymore.

Panic attacks are a regular occurrence. They scare you more than the hell that is growing outside your door. The feeling of being suffocated, of not being able to breathe makes you feel even worse. It only highlights how pathetic you are. You wish you could be normal. But you know it will never be the case. You begin to listen to the words of others and you begin to believe you are a freak. Deep down you know they are wrong, but you listen to their words anyway. Your head is so confused you don’t trust you own judgement. You’re so scared of everything.

Eventually fear gives way to numbness. You can’t be scared forever, it’s too draining. You stop feeling anything. Nothing has any meaning for you. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months. You might as well not exist. For many self harm becomes a way of feeling anything. “Normal” people define this as attention seeking. If I wanted attention I would become a celebrity. I don’t want fame or recognition. I just want to feel anything. Even pain would prove to me I’m alive. But I don’t even feel that. Every time I cut I feel even more worthless. The scars are just reminders of how weak I am. They remind me of how pathetic I have become. They show how abnormal I am.

My friends don’t understand. They see the front I put up. This happy go-lucky face. This iron mask which no one can penetrate. My safety blanket. I don’t let them see me fall apart. I don’t let them see how far I have been dragged into the abyss. I don’t even let them know when I have hit rock bottom. The bruises aren’t visible. I can hide it but the pain is there. It’s there for everyone to see. People don’t want to see it though. They don’t want to admit it is there. They don’t want to admit you are falling apart. They don’t want to deal with it. Most people fear what they do not understand. I don’t even understand it. How can you tell people you feel like shit but you don’t know why? They look at you as if you are mad. They think you are mad. Maybe you are. How would you even know?

Somehow you know it can’t always be like this. That you can’t always feel this bad. You can’t see a way out though. There must be a light at the end of the tunnel, but it seems so far away. For now all you can do is wallow in self pity and self loathing and hope the end will come.

This is depression.