Down

I fucking hate depression. Moreover, I hate the part of depression that seems to make such soul-crushing sense in your head when you’re on your own, but the moment you attempt putting it to spoken word with another human being, you sound as petty and whining as a six year old in a sandbox with not enough toys.

I know I’m a fortunate person. I know I have a lot more going for me and a lot more stability than many, and people that care and worry about me and love me. I still have issues, though… the kind that wait under a rug, rotting and festering until the conditions are just right for it to get just a toehold, just a toehold enough to spread.

I have self-image issues.

I have confidence issues.

I have productivity and procrastination and social issues.

I sometimes want to hide in my room with nothing and yet I want to stare out the window, pining with loneliness for… anything at all.

And by the time I finish a single sentence of sharing it with anyone at all, I’m so annoyed with myself for being so trivial and wasting everyone’s time (and my own) with my inactivity… it’s a bit of a spiral, it is.