‘Don’t bother, you stupid fuck, nobody gives a shit whether they hear from you or not.’ That’s what depression is telling me as I write this from my bed. But I’m pressing on regardless.
It’s been over four months since I started feeling depressed, only this time has been worse than any of the other episodes because depression has robbed me of my creativity. My mum said to me, ‘you’ve lost your anchor,’ when I told her how purposeless I feel, and she couldn’t have been more right.
It’s like the very essence of what makes me me is gone and isn’t coming back and I’m scared. I’m really, really scared because with each day that goes past that I can’t read a poem and feel something or that I can’t write a poem of my own, I feel less like I want to be here. Part of me thinks I need to do something like travel or hike my way out of this depression.
I don’t know what I hoped to achieve by writing this. I guess I just wanted to be a little less alone in my thoughts.