Stabbing Yourself in the Neck
I had a conversation about the source of my general malaise lately, otherwise known as a full-blown depression. The entire point of it, I found, is that there isn’t a source.
I am unhappy. I’ve been this way most of my life. I actually once began dating a girl essentially out of pity; I told her I would never be happy, at which point she kissed me.
Nevertheless, it’s true. I’ve rarely been happy in my life… perhaps never. There are surely moments, but never any extended time; I allow myself to put the good things at a distance so I can focus on the things that eviscerate my spirit. Even moments that should be triumphant are often met more with a feeling of relief: “I managed this without screwing up.”
I wish I was a dreamer. I used to think I was, but the truth is, I shoot holes in my own goals. I can’t do it; success is constantly eluding me.
The real problem about all this is that I don’t care; I can see the problems, but my past failures have taught me not to care.
I can’t remember most of what I said to my roommate. I’m remembering in pieces; I can never tell the whole story.
I want to be happy once.