I’m home earlier than usual today. Depression has dug its claws into me, and the more I try to make it better, the worse I hurt. It’s not even a hurt, really. It’s a darkness. If I wait long enough, the darkness will pass. There is no alternative.
I’m sitting here in what feels like death, alone with a conduit, this computer, that gives me access to the world. I could step outside, go to a public place, even try to talk to someone, but I wouldn’t be able to describe this thing I’m in. Here, I can type and delete and type and try to get it right without worrying whether anyone will actually understand what I’m experiencing. From here, I can send out a message that no one is obligated to read but that anyone with access can choose to gain insight from. Anyone in a similar place might find comfort in knowing that someone in the world knows the darkness just as well.
. . . . .
I know what hell is because I’ve walked through it, and it isn’t fire as the world knows fire to be. It’s existing among the absence of life, of even the potential of life. It’s solitude at its worst. It’s being left alone and forgotten for eternity. It’s dark and silent and hopeless. It’s the, “Oh, shit, wait! I take it back! Sorry sorry I know you’ll forgive me because you always have!” met with deafening silence. There is no music to soothe the soul. There is no sound at all, except for the echoes of loved ones who aren’t aware of your existence beyond what memories they choose to recall, if they ever do. It’s wanting to reach out with no ability to communicate. There is no hand of comfort, not even the essence of God lingers. He’s far gone with a memory of you wiped clean as though you never existed. And yet, you are conscious. You are conscious and nonexistent, and the burning is a black flame of being well aware of it all.
People are drawn to the macabre. They like spooky and the supernatural. They like to be scared. But there is nothing entertaining about death in its truest form. And there is no poof! gone! There is no sleep. There is no rest. And sometimes when I get that feeling of excitement from something spooky, I remind myself that evil is not something to be entertained by. It is real. It is dark. And it is terrifying, as in the literal derivative of terror.
That’s where the darkest depression lies: the depths of hell. Suicide is redundant and pointless. You are already dead.
Not exactly gooey Valentine’s Day stuff, is this?
My second favorite day of the year, and I’m spending it writing about my least favorite thing. I haven’t been to that darkest place in over a decade, and I’m not there now. But I feel its poisonous tentacles brush against me. And I thought perhaps, having this computer at hand, I should share what severe depression feels like. Not because I’m in it now but because I’ve been catching glimpses of it, because people need to know that life, even in its crappiest, most severe moments, is a blessing. And where there is life, there is always the potential for love of many kinds. And that is gooey Valentine’s Day stuff.
. . . .
nb: I need to learn Latin.