When I was young and shy – almost cripplingly shy – I was unable to meet the people I wanted to meet and make the friends I wanted to make. I just couldn’t bear the fear of trying and the near certainty of rejection, and those friends I did have were never exactly the kind of friends I truly wanted, because as I would realize after my depression, low quality people do not attract high quality friends.
I remember actually telling myself – convincing myself – that my Self was my best friend, that I was my own best friend, that I enjoyed the company of my thoughts more than the real company of any other. Those people didn’t understand me. They didn’t support me. They didn’t like me. Only my mind understood. Only my mind was there for me no matter what.
But what exactly had my mind given me? What had my “friend” done for me?
I was completely alone; too horrified to talk to strangers, too weak to stand up to others; too stubborn to change the things about myself that would make life better and myself happier.
I was depressed; convinced that I was unlovable, undesirable, unchangeable; that life was mean and cruel and others were the same. I thought all the worst things had happened to me and that all the most crippling handicaps had been given to me. I was the unluckiest, the ugliest, the only, and things would never work out for me.
I was the victim. I was the damned.
And all the while, my mind told me it was so; that my problems were not my own, that if I just kept the same – if I kept the bitterness and anger – I would see my happy ending. My justice would be done. They would get theirs, and one day, when all my life’s problems were lifted and solved, I would finally be happy.
Magically.
But I had to keep the sadness, it told me. I had to stay depressed. I had to keep re-living what had hurt me and keep hating who had shunned me. I had to keep torturing myself.
I had to stay the same for things to finally change.
And so I kept remembering, and I kept wishing. I kept hating, and I kept crying. And I cycled the memories and fears, the sad songs and the old pictures. And life got worse and worse. My depression grew stronger and stronger. And my time and life wasted.
But for whatever reason, in my contemplation, I saw at last the disgusting routine of my life. I saw why each day felt the same – horrible, painful, and only worse than the one before it. I saw why I could never change, why I couldn’t seem to break the sadness I had carried a lifetime and the depression which was quickly consuming me.
Each day I awoke, the first thoughts in my mind were of the troubles that afflicted me and the problems that followed me. Each day I re-lived them. Each day I re-experienced what had hurt me and who had left me. I thought of waking with her, of how long it had been or how long it would be. I thought of the future I’d do anything to affect, and the past I’d do anything to redo; as if preparing for the day I could actually change what had happened; waiting for the chance that would never come.
Everything reminded me of my problems, and all plans, hopes, and experiences of my life related to them. I could not go 5 minutes without the thoughts flooding my mind. I could not rest.
I refused to escape them. I refused to stop hurting, because to do so meant to actually move on, and I didn’t want to move on. I didn’t want to let go. I wanted what I wanted, and all my dysfunctions – the anger and sadness, the memories and hopes – made sense in that context. They were necessary to keep that dream alive – that my happy ending would come to life; that the reality I dreamed of would become the reality I lived in.
And if dropped them – if I surrendered that anger and sadness, those memories and hopes – I would forfeit forever the idea that that dream was possible; that I could change what had happened, or that I could somehow change myself and be better through no effort of my own or struggle of my own. I’d have to admit that I was wrong
all along; that no one had hurt me, and no one had wronged me. I’d have to admit that I received EXACTLY as I should have, and experienced EXACTLY what I needed.
But it was madness. It was insane. It was fucking stupid.
I was fucking stupid.
To know a certain memory or person, a certain photo or song will bring you pain and sadness, yet subject yourself to it anyway is crazy. And that’s what I did. All the time. It’s what every person suffering from depression does.
They cycle, and cycle, and cycle.
Their memories feed their negativity. Their negativity feeds their sadness. And their sadness recalls their memories.
And when you’re in that cycle of depression – that circle of sadness – it indeed seems hopeless. Because within a circle every turn is the same. All things lead to the same end – the end that never comes. And round and round you go; never healing, never changing, always hurting.
But why? Why would we do it? Why would I do it except to stay the same, except to keep the depression, except to keep hurting? What sick pleasure I got from it. What sick pleasure we all get from it; from playing the victim, from cursing our fortune, from hoping beyond desperation that we can and will change the past.
Because in that dream that will never come – that fantasy – our life finally has a meaning and a purpose. Finally we have a story worth telling; where we’re the victim, worth everyone’s attention and everyone’s sympathies. Finally we feel powerful, even if only in our weakness.
And yet, when I looked in those killer’s eyes it occurred to me at last that that didn’t make sense, that I had all that time been deceived; that what drove that man to do as he did was not some genetic abnormality or clinical disease, but it was the same thing that left me in tears every night.
We were the same.
Nothing separated us.
I was just as tortured in my thoughts. Just as weak in my will. Just as wrong in my choice of “friend.” Neither of us could defeat our own minds or silence the voice in our heads, and we had both – everyday – suffered the consequences.
And now I saw it so clear.
It was my mind that prevented the change I wanted, and the person I needed to become. It was my mind that caused my depression. It was my mind that everyday ruined my life.
Your mind does the same.
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