Hey, there. I’m an eighteen-year-old boy. My name is not important. I just wanna talk to you a little.
I’ve been facing depression for a long time. It all began so early. It started as a lack of a will to do things, a kind of inexplicable sadness and tears rolling over my face because of some thoughts. When I was told I had depression I’d already found myself in a deep hole of melancholy, and it became harder and harder every day. Any task was painful—daily fights against myself and my demons just to do simple things as get up from bed.
I had love, I had friends, I had a lot of things and I did not have others. My relationship with my parents was not good at all; sometimes we fought. And in the end, I lost all the good things. My girlfriend at the time broke up with me. I shut all my friends down and kept myself in this bubble of mine, where no one was able to get in.
My grades went down as I was getting more and more introverted and alone. My parents did not get it; they said it was all bollocks and I just didn’t want to do the home tasks, but it was not.
I used to say to myself that this was just a bad time and it would pass; well, it hasn’t passed, and actually, it’s become worse. It’s not another headache, it’s a bloody migraine. The colorful days became shades of gray, the love became melancholy, and all I used to be was gone.
I kept fighting and losing for a long time, and it all just got tougher. Don’t think I didn’t seek help. I did, it just…didn’t help. I kept on and on with psychologists until I was told I had also anxiety.
In that time of my life, I was living in a castle of glass; my stability was a castle of cards, and I kept myself in that great bottom of sadness.
The journey then to now was messed-up, has been messed-up. I struggle with simple things; going out from bed is a tough task. Study? It’s become impossible. I keep having anxiety crises every time I try, all the pressure over me turned it so hard that I cannot do it anymore. I used to play guitar; now it’s just part of the furniture, my collection of books is over hundreds of dusty sheets, my typewriters are stopped, and my vinyl records don’t spin. The only thing that keeps getting bigger is my collection of bottles.
I do not exercise anymore. I do not live anymore. All my dreams have gone out. All those stupid things are now my fears. Those jokes are stabs in my heart now.
I keep disappointing people. I moved far from my parents. I have tried to be me. But I think I don’t know what is to be me anymore.
What can I do? What have I become? Where shall I go?
I attempted suicide once but I was too cowardly, and I have been thinking about it again; that feeling is here again. I wonder how I let myself get this far and I get no answers. I have been fading away.
I wish I could run away and disappear. But I can’t, and it’s disgraceful.
I’m not the type of person people want close to them. I am affectionate and kind, but also I am this mess and that destroys everything. And I’m sorry for that.
I am sorry for all the people I hurt, I am sorry for all I’ve done and failed to do. In the end, I am sorry for being me.