I’m depressed, like clinically. I have a serotonin imbalance. I know this. Yet there was something about trying to be relevant and independent in 2014, and now 2k15, that made me want to say “fuck it” in a big way. In the kind of way that other people could relate to — that Tumblr reblog-worthy sadness, you know?
“Maybe you’ll be nicer another day,
some softer hour, I think.
The transmission is smoother when words implant faster—”
I typed shitty poetry, attempting to capture a thing that didn’t exist.
I wanted to be sad. So, so sad. I put in line breaks whenever I rolled my eyes at myself, shooting for deep, landing in the shallow end, my nose skimming the floor of the metaphorical pool, the one where I felt everyone was swimming. The depression pool.
The fake deep end.
I kept on: “tan dermis, pink matter, grey thoughts.
I wonder if you could love me,
my hands say yes already, too quickly.
They’re my childish feet in dance class,
they insult my eyes that watch the ones in front of me.
My limbs and digits have already said yes,
they answer questions yours never bothered to ask.”
Nailed it! Posted to Tumblr, my personal one, the one that no one looks at. Posted a selfie. Thought twice. Deleted the poem, reposted it to another Tumblr. A private one. Checked Facebook, got a message from a guy I met on Tinder who I would never date, a guy who pretended he would date me. A Disney prince babe of a dude. Messaged him back. Checked Tumblr.
Felt a soft regret, an inconsequential alarm went off in my mind. Like the alarm you set to make you pay attention the important alarm.
Shrugged. Alarm snoozed. More rosé!
Slammed my laptop shut, somehow bored of the entire Internet and more interested in myself than anything else. I was about to go on a date with someone who was very funny and I was texting someone else who made me feel like shit and also made me laugh, which felt like a great combination. The ultimate combination, really.
It all felt so fun and gross, engrossing and stupid. Gross enough that I could laugh at it, gross enough that I could check out and no be part of it: this wasn’t me navel gazing and low key self-destructing via distraction. It was someone else, a character. Somebody who worked on the Internet. Someone who ~didn’t care~ and used ~these~ to signify my ~being in on the joke.~
But it’s so easy to make excuses for ourselves based on work. It’s so convenient to play detached and uncool and depressed, rather than be sincere and hyped and invested. It’s way too easy to default to branding yourself as broken to profit socially, when it feels like that’s a cool aesthetic. An easy demographic to hit.
Before going out with that semi-stranger and eating chicken sandwiches, I opened the laptop and went to the private blog, the one with the shitty poetry. I laughed at the idea of ever making it public, L’ed the hell OL at the idea of me being that lame online.
Closed tabs, closed the laptop, closed my front door. Waited outside, dressed to my personal nines: shapeless dress, big bedraggled curls, three necklaces. A URL 9, an IRL 6.
Closed off. The date was fine. I didn’t say much. Overall, it was good. Pleasant, even.
When I got home, I drank three more glasses of wine. Alone. I typed “LOL” a hundred times a day, never laughing once.
Months later — right now — I’m publishing lame poetry and telling myself it’s good to learn from myself, lessons in lameness. Good to be self-aware. Good to be positive.