Depression with a capital D

Depression is hard to recover from because as much as you don’t choose to stay miserable, it feels like a choice between staying miserable or faking it.

And the faking in of itself takes its toll on you when inside you’re anything but okay.

Depression makes it, so you also don’t see the point in recovery because, after all, you think that life is pointless anyway.

That, along with trying to fake it, is the ultimate struggle.

If life is pointless, why bother recovering?

I come up against this all the time.

People say Depression lies to you.

I say it doesn’t.

Who is right?

Obviously, I think I’m right. Depression tells us the ultimate truth that life is pointless in the grand scheme of things.

I’m always fighting this struggle inside; I can’t remember a time when I didn’t.

I don’t beat myself up for the same things as others, generally speaking, not to say I never do, I have my moments, but they’re few and far between.
I don’t beat myself up over a lack of success. Success never mattered to me because life is too pointless for it to matter.

But what I do beat myself up time and again for is not going through with the ultimate expression of this pointlessness, for being a coward for not doing it.

Some nights it haunts me that I am too scared to do the one act that makes logical sense in the scheme of things.

What does that fear and anxiety mean? That underneath it all, I truly want to live? That’s what I’m always told. ‘It’s a sign you want to live.’ ‘It’s because you want the pain to be over, not your life.’

But what if it really is just a case of cowardice? I have been a coward much of my life, never mind being able to do the ultimate act to oneself.

Weird how cowardly a person can be while also feeling so utterly Depressed.

It’s a weird thing, too, because Depression can be an empty, numb feeling and too much pain. Either oscillating between feeling so numb you could be accused of managing to be ‘stoic’ only because you feel so little there is nothing to express, or you’re so distraught in life people tell you to calm down.

I, The consumer



“It’s a happy pursuit, the inscription of oneself” – Dr Haggard from Dr Haggard’s disease by Patrick Mcgrath 

When I hear humans describe ‘consumerism’, I imagine nostrils flaring as things get sucked as they inhale and consume.

Such an ugly word Consumerism. Yet I guess it’s an appropriate term. The idea of being a ‘consumer’ consumes me with repulsion.

I picture plastic bottles being squeezed in sync with a human sigh of desperation for more.

I went through a phase where I’d listen to podcasts about topics that essentially amounted to the politics of consumerism and ‘consumerist’ rights. I always felt a twinge of discomfort when I heard them say the words, “We the consumers”, or “Our consumerist rights” because all that played in my imagination was a reel where peoples nostrils opened up and consumed without thought.

The irony is that by listening to a podcast about these things, I was consuming media they produced and so my own nostrils were doing the same thing.

And that is what repulses me the most in the end, that no matter how much I hate the idea, I am a consumer! What I’ve often found ironic about people like myself who shit on the idea of so-called ‘consumerism’ is that we’re often just as much a consumer as everyone else. You see it behind these peoples back on their youtube videos while they talk about the ills of society and this wretched world of the constant need for ‘goods’.Yet behind them, they’ll have a mess of nonsense stuff that comes to no use whatsoever other than for aesthetic purposes.
But perhaps I’m expecting too much on the part of people who see the ills of this world while also taking part in it.

It’s something I find myself doing a lot when on the youtubes. I find it absolutely fascinating to see the interior of the room they’re filming in, the objects they have on their shelves and the things they have hung on their walls. Some of them like to make it appear as if they just simply put their camera on and roll with it, but I suspect even they take some care as to what can be seen in the background.

To some extent, i guess I idealise the idea of merely leaving society and going off-grid, living in a log cabin and ultimately having that self-sufficiency to survive on one’s own without help.
Unfortunately, I’m not deluded enough to believe I could manage this feat. The woods aren’t wheelchair friendly for one, or very friendly to anyone who uses walking aids for that matter, not to mention all the medication I need just to be alive.

I guess I am just another consumer after all.

I just sat

I sat outside till the midges started to bite. I just sat.

Do you know what it feels like to feel like your drowning on air?

I rely on others to care about me, in a world that doesn’t care.

So I sat. And I tried not to think I’m an idiot. But I did, I slapped my forehead and said “you’re a fucking idiot” and I think the cat across the road might agree. I considered just staying there, sleeping on the bench.

I walked out the other night to distract myself from the S word. I’m restless. It was about 11:00 pm. I prefer being outside at night, i oddly feel safer. A guy walked down the road just before you turn to the block of flats, and I don’t know what was up with him but….it explained why it was a windless night. Because he seemed to have to all the wind coming out of his arse. He was farting really loudly as he walked along, hell they sounded like he possibly followed through. I don’t think he noticed someone was actually outside at that time to witness it….

It hurts when you realise you’re alone in this world.