Explaining My Depression To People Who Don’t Understand

I am happy and I laugh and trust me, I have funny jokes.

But you don’t know I’m depressed.

I verbalized not even once but you thought I was just saying that out of frustration and exhaustion. But I meant it. Every word, Every sigh.

I am trying to open up, to alleviate the heaviness. Somehow, it helped. It helped lengthen the time I spend breathing, to soldier up, and to keep on going.

You might know the storm but you don’t know the turmoil inside my crushing chest. You don’t know the vast emptiness when I’m all by myself. You’re not the one being fed up when you’re physically tired but somehow your brain manages to stay up just to piss you off and let you overthink about all your misfortunes in life. You’re not the one who can’t sleep.

You’re not the one being dependent on pills. You’re not the one who had to get up on the bed and face the mirror before you put on a big, great show in front of everybody instead of trying to be real just so you won’t be labeled as an attention seeker.

You don’t know how many times I thought about dying because I’m as good as dead – purposeless.

Some of my friends know. What a comfort it brought. But I’m still stuck.

For those who tried to be there, I want to thank you. If it weren’t because of you, I might have been a rotting corpse by now. Thank you for trying to listen and for giving advice and for trying to suggest ways that I can get out of the situation. Thank you for the love and thank you for trying to understand but, no.

No, depression isn’t just a phase. It’s the same exact thing I thought a year ago. But being dead inside for a year surely isn’t a phase.

No, it isn’t something my mind created. Believe me, I really hope it is something I did for myself that I can surely destroy. I hope it was like that. But no it’s not.

No, the things that used to make me happy couldn’t bump me out of this. Haven’t you seriously thought that it never crossed my mind and actually do something to get out of this mire?

No, you can’t point out the problem and address it. That’s the thing about depression, it’s vast. You’re like inside a dark cosmos and people ask you to identify which among you see is black.

It’s not sadness.

It’s not grief.

It’s not that “different people have various ways of tryna cope up with a problem” shit.

And as of this writing, I am trying.

I love writing. I consider myself a poet.

This is my channel. And I hope it would make me happy and magically lift me up from this depression.

The list goes on for the things I tried but I’m still where I was left off.

I feel like a failure. Because after all the ways a common person would do to be distracted and feel a little light and gay away from an unwanted feeling – I can’t.

And then I hear them say I’m the problem.

Until they can’t figure out.

Until it becomes even more weighty by the day and I needed more to lean on but I’m too heavy.

They tried but at the end of their rope, they all say the same thing.

They can’t figure out.

They can’t understand.

They got tired.

The feeling is mutual.

I stare at my food more than I chew them.

I stare at my ceiling on a dark night longer more than I am functional at daytime.

I stare at an instrument I am tempted to use to take my life and make a difficult decision on a daily basis.

Every day, it’s like staring at a hell gate.

I want to die.

It’s an itch I cannot scratch.

Whatever is keeping me alive, it’s the thought that I’m better than this.

I’m better than just taking my life.

I’m better than succumbing.

I’m better at making myself a fool and a laughing stock because I’m hoping there’s a silver lining in this.

I hope at the end of this long, winding road is my Elysium.

Who the fuck I’m kidding?!

But I’m hoping.