Anyone can be depressed.
You don’t have to be poor or unloved or homeless. You can be depressed even if you are privileged. There is no “even” needed in that sentence.
Depression is not an award. You don’t get to be depressed only if you win at ‘who’s life sucks the most’
Depression is not like therapy or street performing. You don’t need a licence for sadness.
The depression police will not fine you $120 for being to rich to be depressed.
The depression police will not let you off with a warning if you cooperate.
Anyone can be down or sad or blue or feel like a sack of shit.
You can be depressed about being depressed. There are no rules. You don’t need a reason to be depressed.
You can even enjoy being depressed. It’s not uncommon.
You might feel guilty about being down in the dumps when you feel you shouldn’t.
There’s always that little part of us that says “Why the fuck are you sad? You’re not depressed. It’s not possible for you to be depressed. There are starving children in Africa whose lives suck more then you can imagine. You have different foods to choose from.”
You know the voice. It’s the one that tells you that your art is shit. Painful to look at. Maybe it’s right.
You don’t need to show your ten-year daddy-issues permit to enter Sadness City. You don’t need an excuse.
Why are the starving children always African? Perhaps so they don’t feel too close to us..
Still, why not say, Brazilian? Cambodian? Australian? Everywhere has their starving children. Why don’t the starving adults get no love? Love, name-checked, whatever.
You know what I’m talking about. A loss of will. A mental brick wall. A sense of lacking in your soul.
The nameless empty.
It comes and goes at its whimsy. It takes priority above all else. Even if you stick to your routine, It occupies your mind, turning everything to ash. Impermanent. Dust in the wind.
It is what makes you sigh a thousand sighs, drives you to lay on the floor, seemingly transfixed by the ceiling.
In truth, you are not transfixed on the pattern of the carpet nor the dancing of shadows, but by your own sorrow.
You have to rely on memories now. “I think this made me happy” and “The dishes must be washed to prevent badness” are what you sail by, even though the idea of happiness and unhappiness lose their sway.
You are not happy. You are not unhappy either, save for lack of happiness. You just…. are.
An existence without purpose. And it is purpose that pulls us, that guides us, that drives us.
Pain and pleasure hold but wisps of their former power.
So it is. You will exist for a time, then you will live again.
Nothing will help you when it comes, there is little you can do then, save convincing yourself to get a few mundane tasks out of the way whist you care not about any unpleasantness.
But when it is gone, fret not. Do not berate yourself. It is said that the time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time, but what of truly wasted time? When you did naught to gladden, satisfy, nor further yourself in any way?
Move on. You can’t change the past. That time, that part of your life is gone forever, so don’t waste time thinking about it.
Tell yourself that until you believe it. Do something that will make you forget.