I know, it’s only human for people to tell me to take drugs for depression, but I know people who take a cabinet of unpronounceable medications mindlessly scribbled by illegible handwriting and still they feel the same way, act the same and think to kick the bucket now or whenever will still hurt the toes of those who care and so why wait. What’s the purpose of living? It sparks thoughts.
I know I will be worse off if I begin medications and I don’t feel any better. I will be sad about why! Why don’t the drugs work and then I will need more drugs, drugs for a cure and drugs for the after effects of the “cure”. And that’s how the drug addiction is born. Numbing the pain with champagne has never been my thing, I like to feel it all. That’s the essence of my creativity, the long hours of depressing moments that births a piece of art. But the process seems like a transitory stage that I feel one day I might not survive and then I’d give up, give in to my natural urges, give ghost.
But I haven’t made a masterpiece or at least not something I consider a masterpiece, I’m still (gently) pruning my book, making features and trying to make a name for myself as an artist and so I don’t think it’s time to go, not yet. However, the angels know they can take me anytime they want, too. Not to sound familiar and selfish by forgetting about the world, or the people in it who matter the most, but do you actually think the years have gone by really fast?
Most people ask and ask (a very stupid question), hoping to get an answer they will never understand. “Why do you get depressed?”
Well, It doesn’t hurt less that the question comes the most from people I consider family, people who should be understanding of me, but it hurts all the same. But who can blame them for being naive? Which man has truly known the heart of his brother, which man of us is not forever a stranger and alone in the crevices of his mind, the heart of heart? Having said that, there should be no questions on a why in any depressed person case but a “How.”
“How can I help?”
You can help by first getting out of my sight, but not really, I want you to stay, please don’t go. And while you’re here say nothing and do nothing because it might annoy me. I also don’t want you to stop, to not not do anything and not not say anything. As if that is not enough I will make you feel like it’s all your fault even though it’s not. Are you confused? Well, I am too, and that confusion drives me clinically insane, that same confusion is what makes you bleat the unspeakable “You need help.”
Well, If you feel help is the answer to my problems then start reading again. I don’t need help, I need a company that equals to Solitude and someone who knows the right time to keep quiet when they see someone isn’t interested in talking or listening at a time. And that’s not even close to how depression makes anyone feel.
There’s the part that feels like opposing sides are playing a tug of war with your intestines and your heart is in the same breath trying to flee your body to god knows where. Even your mind has a mind of its own, your ears have ears, your eyes have eyes, and that’s not close.
It’s a personal torture, for you and your chi to bare alone.
I’ve managed, in my spare time, to define depression. It’s not close, but it’s a tip-of-the-iceberg start: Depression is out of this world, it’s inhuman and inhumane, it is God, and it is the devil.
Every soul on earth, I presume, was given the talent to hold and nurture on Earth or Mars to enable them to live a happy life, before the whoosh that led to a soul dispatch, before a spirit, before a mind, before a body. What I’m saying is, every soul on earth blessed with a talent or has life gets depressed, and in their own way, and that is why it’s difficult to properly reach out and be there for someone, but few try and for that they’re mermaids.
In that sense, depression is the God in you uncomfortable with this world, it’s why you get so sensitive and every creation gets to you, even a word, it’s the light years in you bothered about how slow time moves compared to how fast your mind travels, it’s the God particle, the condiment to real creativity.
Why do we create? For companionship, for clarity of mind, to know what is good or bad, for struggle and for continuity, and never forget, we create for worship.
Who creates? Gods create, and so the Gods must also be depressed, the Gods must also be crazy.
I am God, and God is me.