The Ridiculousness of Depression

The last few days, I’ve been going through a severe depression. Yesterday, I spent most of the day either huddled on the couch or in bed, as even simple tasks seemed overwhelming. There was a lot I wanted to get done, but depression had other plans. 

I know that it will pass, that the things whispered to me in the darkness are just lies, falsehoods that come out of a disease that wants to see me fail. But that doesn’t make them seem any less real. And I know how ridiculous the whole thing is, me cowering in bed, hiding from a world that is just too much for me to handle. Not even being able to feel hungry because that would be too much work. I know it is ridiculous. 

Depression itself is ridiculous. A darkness that saps your energy, that robs you of your ability to get pleasure out of anything. You’d be angry at it, but anger takes way to much work. You try doing things that should bring you joy, and you can’t even focus on them. You try to write your experience down, but you struggle to string two sentences together. 

And outside the world passes you by. Kids playing ball. Old ladies who are taking their dogs for a walk. Cats who spend 20 hours a day sleeping. All of them seem to have more energy than you. And you know the whole thing is absurd, but you can’t do anything about it so instead you just lay in bed, listening to the rain outside and wishing it would wash you away. You don’t want to die. You just want to be washed away, to not exist, not like this. 

 

But the rain doesn’t wash you away. 

 

Instead you just lay in bed, cursing the ridiculousness of depression, of being trapped in your own nightmare, while you toss and turn sleeplessly and wait for the darkness to pass. Because you know it will. You just have to wait it out. And at this point, ridiculous as it seems, that is all you can do.

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