Depression: My Dungeon

April 6, 2012
This is for all of the cool people,
For the popular, good-looking, athletic,
Talented, skilled, appreciated, and relevant
People who exist in a world vastly different from mine:
I don’t want your pity,
The cliché phrases someone taught you
To use when encountering those “less fortunates” of your race.
I am not asking you to withhold
Your sneering smirks or mocking comments
When you read this.
And trust me,
I would never expect you to understand.
All I am asking is that you read this
And take just one second out of your
Worthwhile, purposeful, and successful life
To be thankful for what you have
And for who you are.
Depression: This is my world.
I feel worthless.
I am disgusted with who I am.
The thought of myself,
Of what I look like,
Of how I act,
Of how little I can accomplish in a day,
Of how weak and down-right pathetic I am;
It makes me want to vomit.
These thoughts about myself,
They are what cause my depression.
I picture my life as a pool of stagnant, rank blood
Beside the head of a murder victim in an alleyway.
It sounds like a weird analogy; I know,
But my life is just that.
I used to have value, to provide that oxygen,
Or motivation people needed to
Get through their day,
But today,
I am the image people try to get out of their heads;
Mothers shield their children’s eyes from seeing me as they pass,
And people are afraid of catching some life-threatening disease
Just from any form of contact with me.
I don’t know how I got from “A” to “B,”
How I let myself disintegrate so fast,
It just happened.
So we’ve established now that I feel worthless and am therefore depressed.
I mean, you got it, great fact to know, right?
But let me tell you what it feels like.
I wake up in the morning
To my alarm clock
And instead of hearing an annoying beeping sound or stupid song from the radio
I hear the echoing of the gunshot that ended
My once purposeful life
Ricocheting off my bedroom walls,
Bouncing off my alarm clock,
And drilling into my head one last time
The reverberating fact that I don’t matter,
That I am not needed.
My room smells like road kill.
It is almost as if I can smell the scent of my own rotting flesh
Waft up from under the sheets,
Fill my room, and
Hover stagnantly over me.
I look in the mirror, but quickly look away because it is just too painful.
Often though, that quick look is enough to make the feelings surge.
My body gets cold; my hands begin to shake; blood pulses;
My blue veins stand out from my white, blank skin; my stomach turns;
I get light headed; my eyes begin to burn,
And then the uncontrollable, embarrassing tears gush
Out of my bloodshot eyes and down my face.
So pathetic.
I go to church on Sunday.
It is my desperate effort to somehow make things right.
I sit and hope the preacher will say something
Convicting or condemning that will scare me into being a better person.
I guess, I mean, I know I am not good enough.
I am not good enough for God.
I am not good enough to have friends.
I am not good enough to be in the presence of others period.
I guess I just wish there was a way out,
Something I could do to make things better,
Something magical, supernatural,
But instead I sit in the pew listening to a doleful
Organ drone on piously condemning my unworthy soul to Hell.
Much appreciated.
Love you too.
I get it.
So I understand your side of the story,
But take a look at mine.
My life is a nightmare. I want to beg for mercy.
I refuse all help. I am hated.
I am angry. I want to scream.
I am frustrated.
I feel like I am drowning.
I feel like I am going insane.
I wake up in the morning, and I lose.
It’s painful.
Nike tells me to “Just Do It,” but I am “Just Done.”
I am alone, without love. Somebody, help me…please.
It is not that I want to die, and I don’t wish I never existed,
I simply just feel that everyone would be better off if
I had never been born.
When it gets to the end of the day,
I don’t want to offer excuses, explanations, or complaints about who I am,
I simply want to say that I am sorry.
I’m sorry I am to weak to be good enough.

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