How It Is

In some ways, depression is the groovy old family cat of your best friend. It holds no prejudice of class, gender or education.  It isn't concerned with how much you earn, how much you weigh or how many things  in your life are "good". If it chooses to be your companion, it will be, regardless of whether or not you try to scare it away.

Much like that family cat of your best friend, depression is a weird and stinky old sod.

I find, once again, it is moulting on my trousers and dribbling on my shoulder.  It makes me angry. It makes me feel powerless. It makes me really, really bloody cross because I do not have time to be depressed. I have far too much to do.  Damn it, I don't have the hours to sit being maudlin and annoyed by how indescribably rubbish my attempts at being a human are.

I have no idea why I have depression. I feel like an inveterate fraud for having it. I live a relatively easy life, and although it hasn't been without its less easy periods I am still alive.

I hate the feeling of not being able to cope, but not knowing what it is I can't cope with. I hate the wanting to cry but not being able to. I hate the way that my brain throws open my carefully prepared, anotated with mental post it note boxes of shit and throws it on the floor so I have to scrabble through it like a fly searching for shit to understand what the problem is this time.

I resent having feelings. I resent feeling despair. I resent that my brain has wibbles that I cannot control and am sometimes unable to stop. I despise myself for being this pathetic. I despise myself for admitting this. I feel weak and like a victim for it.  Sometimes painting the house or double digging the garden just isn't going to cut it for me, because I don't know what I am sad about.

But this; this is how it is. This is how I am.  And for all the annoying nuances that I have as a result; for all my unending stupidity and casually moronic actions; for all my staring out of the window procrastinating and hating myself; for all the self harm I've inflicted and continue to perpetrate against my body through my idiotic relationship with food; for the ridiculous level of sensitivity that I deny I have and attempt to hide behind my rhinocerous skin; for all the abuse I put myself through because, really, I am the person that hates me the most, I wouldn't change it.  I couldn't change it, because having depression, being like this, means I can understand how and why others do the same thing.

And that; that is how it is.