“it’s been a year.”   —greg laswell

Actually it’s been longer, a year and a couple of months since my last post. You wanna know the really sad thing? Not a lot has changed. I was re-reading some of the posts on this blog (including the dozens that I started and didn’t finish. So many drafts full of words I thought but couldn’t—or didn’t want to—think through…) and it’s painfully obvious to me that I’m the same person I was a year ago. I’m in the same place. I’m still at home, I’m still not working, I’m still going through periods of feeling inspired, like Things Will Be Okay and applying to jobs and feeling optimistic… only to suddenly feel like it doesn’t matter, everything is pointless, I’m not going anywhere, I can’t go anywhere, I’m worthless, my life is worthless and I don’t matter, I am just a blip on the radar screen of life and if I never existed nothing in the world would be different.

I’m driving my mother crazy (random aside: this sentence feels okay to me even though most of the time I hate the word “mother.” I find it creepy for some reason, idk). “She’s going to be 25 years old,” she says to my sister. “25 years old and she doesn’t have a job.” It is no secret that I am a pathetic waste of life. I hear her switch topics (kind of, but not really, because it all still comes back to me) and talk about kids at her school who come from bad backgrounds: financial instability, absent or drug-addicted parents, no family support. It reminds me of the approximately five thousand times she has reminded me that I come from a good family: we aren’t rich, by any means, but we have money; we live in a nice area; neither she nor my father have ever been physically abusive to me; I did well in school and went to a good college—so why am I broken? What right do I have to say I’m depressed? What do I have to be depressed about? What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I just be grateful for all the blessings in my life?

I don’t know.

Most of the time when she asks me these questions I just say that it’s not that simple. Depression doesn’t work like that. People whose lives seem fine can be depressed, too; it’s not necessarily dictated by a poor quality of life. But then there are times like this where I think that a year ago and two years ago I felt the same way as I do now and I’m not better, I’m not getting better and even when I feel like I want to be better and I can work towards being better I don’t know how to start to be better and maybe there is no such thing as better. Maybe this is just life and and this is just what it will be like for my entire life. And that makes me feel tired, because I don’t know how I can keep living if this is as good as it gets. If I can be happy occasionally but for the most part I’m lost and sad and broken. So I’m sitting at the table, writing in this blog for the first time in fifteen months and crying because a week from today I will be twenty five years old and nothing is different and I don’t know if it ever will be and that really scares me.






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