I strongly dislike the word depression. It is used as quick to classify someone as it is to assume someone has lost interest in you because they haven’t said a word of reassurance in a day or two. I strongly dislike speaking of my own hardships with this topic, because I’d rather not be ‘publicly’ associated with this falsely romanticized thing. There are things to love, and I’ll be truly honest, I love to love, whatever it may be. I refuse to let myself be defeated by fueling my own days in the shadows, letting others make every hour of my life seem as if they are the deepest of black as they pass. Yet, I will never believe there is a universally perfect person or a perfect world, for there may be billions of perceptions of perfection. I cannot deny the pressing feeling of displeasure with my life at times, though.
I can’t say the specific time at which this thing began to travel with me and I couldn’t manage to attribute any specific event to it, though I can say it has, of course, become more complex over time as I’ve grown older. Change, I’d suppose. As time progressed, so did the illustration of this person in my mind. Various “classics” occurred in my life. A parent moved out, a new figure moved in, and it truly changed life as I knew it, for the magnitude of this change was much larger than I thought at the time. It makes me wish that alcohol were not a real substance that people could take advantage of. Oh the animals it will create out of any lost soul. It created the damage to a once safe place, it took the freedom away from another, and clouds the minds of someone I thought I knew. I’ll never forget the foreign feeling of sheer and utter incongruence, the rush of uncertainty in my heart. The reactions and result of these various events that would be better tucked away, are what create this power of displeasure in my head.
I imagine seeing this figure from the corner of my eye each and every place I go, though I know I cannot physically knock out this entity, for it is only in my mind. I imagine this figure as a tall and professional man, a businessman, perhaps a lawyer, for he tends to get his way, being the manipulative thing he is. He is often found lounging around in a large space where decisions are made, conversing with only himself in the mirror that makes up the walls, for he knows ultimately his words, no matter how irrational, will be construed into the most lovely string of convincing sadness one will ever hear. His dark image is very clean cut, having very defined features, being quite handsome in a way, if you will, only to distract from the mental concoction he has in store for the courtroom of emotions. He frightens me at times, for he is not very kind to me, laughing as he makes me a slave of a thing I created myself and let myself become sickeningly addicted to. Belittled I am.
I am ashamed to say I carry depression because I don’t want to disappoint. I don’t want to be seen as weak, and possibly it is me who I am afraid to disappoint, for my expectations go hand in hand with my perception of perfection. Though, above all of these past events that apparently haunt me a bit, I am determined to surpass my own expectations and not let these things cut off my supply of a genuine life, for I’ve witnessed things better than what I’ve been feeling, and I am convinced there is much much more to life than a bad day, a bad week, or even a bad month. So much more.