The pleasure of the end.

I thought for a while things would get better, I thought :" if I cut out thing X or person Y everything will get better"

It was too late;however, the damage was already done. Pulling a bullet out of the body doesn't stop the bleeding.

As I descend further into uninterrupted melancholy, I drag those I love down with me. Speaking both as a  speaker and listener,  talking about depression to people with their own mental health issues generally makes the listener feel worse in 1 of 2 ways.

Way 1:
They try and help, as all good friends do, but when their well intentioned attempts fall of deaf  (or cynical) ears they grow sadder. Why?

Because they realise all they can do is sit and watch you suffer. 

( Inevitably making the speaker feel worse when they realise that - like a cancer - the depression is spreading to other cells)

Way 2:
They're painfully reminded of their own issues. After all, we're selfish by nature. We can't help but think of ourselves. This unpleasant trigger drudges up the same despair they too have been trying so hard to banish.

When you're in a state of constant overload it can feel growingly tempting to take the quick path to eternal silence. A place with no deadlines, no expectations. A place that is, in a twisted way, a utopia.

But of course you can't.

To do so would inevitably have a ripple effect, hitting everyone in your immediate circle of intimacy with a feeling worse than any other : loss.

So want can you do?
I don't know. As far as I can see, just continuing to exist is an achievement in and of itself. I'll let you know if I happen upon something a bit better than just survival...

Hopefully sometime soon I'll find the trick to life, and update you.

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