Rage blog: Or, why it’s hard to love myself right now.

Depression is an evil monster. It is a thief, feeding off your happy memories and turning you dark. It slowly works at swallowing you whole, at tainting everything around you bitter bourbon black; enveloping you with long, dripping fingers that slowly wrap around your throat, working themselves tighter and tighter until one day you wake up and can’t understand why you can’t breathe. Why the entire world feels like it is collapsing around your naked feet. Why everything you touch is slowly crumbling underneath your fingertips. It convinces you to be bitter so that those around you keep their distance, because it is easier to say that no one ever could get through your grizzly exterior than to love you. The pain of losing someone else in your life is greater than it is to not be loved, so you let it swallow you. You drink the poison, let it settle in all nice and warm underneath your skin like the way vodka goes down when you are angry. It burns you, rips you, breaks you in parts and devours you until you are bite-sized, manageable. It consumes you, one moment at a time until you don’t know who really cares and who is faking it long enough to be in your life so they, too, can steal something from you just like everyone else.

Anxiety is no better. Anxiety tells you that if depression thinks you aren’t worth anyone’s time, you certainly aren’t when you say stuff like that. When you think that way. It tells you that you will be nothing more than a failure when you are so sad. No one wants to be around someone so sad. People see enough failure at work, at home, they don’t want to see it in your eyes, too—defeat. Anxiety says that you will always be this way.

And sometimes you won’t know, who is talking. You won’t know who is tricking you, but you will know, that you don’t know who you are beneath it all. And maybe getting better isn’t worth it, because there’s just so much anger. You are knee-deep in a shit pile of anger. And God only knows, that the religious people want to tell you the only way to heal is to go to their church. Join their commune. Sip their drugs. Drink their blood. As if I hadn’t already tried that kind of healing. As if my lungs aren’t full of enough toxic words floating around in my lungs to remind me all the lies my mother told me. All the times she told me I wasn’t good enough flogging my heart into submission. Another blocked message clotting up my heart. Another person trying to convince me that religion is the only way, pretending I’m not “saved”. That I can’t be wounded and holy. That I can’t be so close to fire and still grow. Their eyes full of pretend. Broken. Gasping.

I’ve been told that I should just get rid of all the bitterness I carry around. Obvious problem solver. Just, dump it out. Fill the earth with it. Send it into space. But rid your body of the negativity. Yet some wounds are so deep, there will never be any scarring over. And you cannot tell me that I should pretend these things never happened for the sake of my peace. I’m fucking sick of being the better person. I’m sick of pretending that I am okay. I’m sick of smiling and parading around like my life is wonderful, when I’ve spent a whole year swallowed whole by crippling pains that leave me wracked in grief and emptiness. I’m sick of people loving me because I’m nice. Fuck nice. I’m intricate. I’m painful. I’m hard to be around. I’m beautiful. I’m ugly. I’m weird and quirky. And underdeveloped. I am empty. I am weak. I am diamonds. And brittle. And I don’t know where I am.

Help me.

Tell me.

Where the fuck am I?


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