I don't understand how depression makes
some people creative.
I'm not even very depressed and I feel
trapped by it. It invalidates my ideas and makes everything
difficult. It makes things that can wait (or must wait) feel
frighteningly pressing and everything that needs to happen right now
is somehow delayed because I can't bear to be done with it.
It's not that I'm not doing anything.
It's that everything I'm doing loses its value. I would be proud of
the reading I've done, the writing I've done, the people I've met.
But I just feel vaguely disappointed in how much I've learned and in
The Beautiful and Damned (which may be a source of some of
this ennui).
I must be happy. But seeking happiness
to be happy feels like googling “how do I laugh?” I need
something bigger to be happy.
I also need the sadness to stop
manifesting itself physically. If I could just ignore it, if I didn't
feel the pain in my stomach, or the heaviness in the bridge of my
nose, the ringing in my ear. It's speaking to me, maybe it's yelling
at me, telling me that it's there. I can only stand here helplessly.
What is sadness? What do you want?
I haven't earned sadness, no more than
my internship of interminable reading. That's why it doesn't sit well
with me. I am so nearly cosmically obliged to be happy that I have no
arsenal to battle sadness. The reasons for it are so small that I
can't imagine how it bloomed in such arid soil.
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