Boxes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic

A story about someone who's depressed. I'd like to add that this is not how I feel myself, but how I imagine someone would feel in this situation.

Boxes
A story of depression
You don’t know me.
I don’t know you.
You probably don’t care about any of this. Please feel free to stop reading. Don’t listen if you don’t want to hear. It’s not my business what you do.
There is a certain phrase, one that I hate. This phrase is ‘Sam old, same old.’ Such a strange little phrase, don’t you agree? It can be used in so many different ways. If you asked after the health of someone in a coma, for instance, the phrase ‘Same old, same old’ would be bad. It would mean that hope was once gain lost, and now all you could do was keep waiting.
But if you asked someone with a rich, happy, fulfilling life and it was ‘same old, same old’, than isn’t that a good thing?
Same old, same old. It seems like that to me. Every day is the same, the whole monotonous cycle of getting up and going to bed- it all wears down on me. Every breath, every chew, every step is another grain of sand falling into the bottom of the hourglass that inevitably leads to death. Every moment wasted, every chance lost.
I wish there was a reason I feel this way. It would make so much more sense; I could remedy the situation if I just knew the cause. But as much as I look for it, it escapes me.
This isn’t depression I am feeling. At least, not the black-wearing, over dramatic tears-all-over-the-place depression that seems so idealised in the media. I suppose people like that get a kick out of it; there must be some reason for it. Maybe it makes them feel special- that they alone feel this way, and that their lives actually matter in some way. If that is depression, than that is not me. I don’t feel self-pitying, or even sad. I just feel... empty. Wasted. Lost.
Oh, what a piece of work is man. In his feeble ignorance he thrashes at his tight binds labelled with the words ‘normality’, yet fails to realise that he himself has created his own confinement. This, inevitably, is the human condition. As is the belief that one matters, that there is a purpose to each of our tiny lives. This is what religion is, I suppose. The belief, not in god, but that when we die our life will have mattered. But it doesn’t. Not really.
I contemplated suicide once.
I almost did it, too.
In the last moments of what was to be my whole life I suddenly realised- I don’t want to die. I want to live! Yo be one of those people who can look up at the world and feel the vitality and joy flow through them. I want to feel.
You don’t know me.
I don’t know you.
You might not understand what I’ve been talking about; I don’t understand myself. But this is the first step. Once you’ve written out your thoughts, told someone, than you can start the process of recovery. I will break out of this box, I will end this cycle. This is just the beginning.
 


Submitted: April 11, 2011

© Copyright 2020 Mandya. All rights reserved.

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