Be Your Own Super Human!

Have you wondered how it feels to be someone who suffers from mild depression but the symptoms aren’t that deadly so nobody gives a shit?

Image credits: henn_kim, Instagram
Image credits: henn_kim, Instagram

Hold on, this isn’t any comparison or whatsoever. Every type of depression is equal and should be treated with utmost care and respect. This is NOT a competition. 

I have good days and bad. Mostly good days, but the bad ones are bad enough to overshadow the good ones by a long shot. I live a pretty, good privileged life and I should be thankful for it (which I am) but that’s not the point. I don’t cry my eyes out or have trouble breathing at random, but I still “feel” like shit most of the time. A minor inconvenience fucks up my entire thought process and creates indescribable disruption. I fall into pieces which only I can assemble back. I hear everyone say, “I’m here for you if you want to talk.” ; so where do I begin? How do I explain a lifetime of battling with anxiety and “mild” depression? How do I possibly put aside the fear of getting judged while narrating my sob story to a society which constantly disappoints and puts down every human being? Be it shaming a 3 year old for what her mother made her wear or a global female icon for getting shot and making something out of her misery. And mind you, it’s not just my gender that throws me further into the deep, dark pit of depression. It’s much bigger than that. 

I love how these supportive messages begin to pop up at the death of one famous entity. As soon as that fades away, so does the empathy for the dead person. It breaks my heart that people like me who are struggling every day, sometimes just to wake up and gather the energy to live a single day without overthinking, or without having to indulge in small talk, will have to keep on handling themselves because no matter what, nobody else can understand your pain like you do, nodbody gives a shit about you like you do. It’s borderline cynical but if you put some wise thoughts to it only you can save yourself, be your own best friend. The people around you, are all good just for casual encounters. 

Hold them close, but hold yourself the closest. 

Stop Romanticising Depression!

Of late, I have come across a bunch of hoodwinked people who assume and believe that Depression and Anxiety affects only the less privileged part of the society. Clearly, these people have never faced uneasiness, random pangs of sadness, overpowering them and eventually bumming them down!

Honestly, Depression was never about those temporary bouts of regular old sadness. Depression is certainly not some black and white image with goth boy staring out of a window and some stupid quote caked on to it.  It’s just like your regular illness that you wish went away, but worse. Because, nobody comes out and says “I have a disorder” or “I need help.” For whatever reason, opening up about it isn’t something we all do. Nobody hides the truth, but at the same time none of us are facing it head-on either.

It’s almost impressive how worthless depression and anxiety can make you feel. Here’s the thing, get it straight or get out: People get sad. People get depressed. And people cry. No one has the right to say that they can’t and worse, to be happy and say “it’s just a phase” because it doesn’t ever get better.

Depression can hit anybody, regardless of their sex, age, or country. You might have a lot of friends, but you might feel like curling up in a corner and not have any human interaction for days at all. You’d skip sleep but at the same time feel never to get out of the bed. You skip meals because eating feels like a chore. Your friends and family worry about you but eventually they get used to your absence every now and then. They stop asking you what’s wrong because they never get the right answer. What would you say to them anyway? You might have a hundred thousand people by your side when you don’t need them but the moment you do, there’s no one at all. All your nightmares begin to seem to come to reality. And the voices in your head, oh the voices never die.

This is what depression is and if people knew even one fourth of what it feels like to go through the this, they wouldn’t joke around about it. They wouldn’t tell people that it’s ‘spur-of-the-moment’ thing or to get over it or to look at the bright side. There is no bright side for us.

So, don’t let people tell you that your problems are less important than the problems somebody else might have. It’s never the case. Don’t make them make your tough situation any tougher.

Why I Write?

Through all the years of despotism and desolation, we keep writing. Through the years of solemn pain, and understanding, the years of searching, the moment of finding. Through all the times of mindnumbing tears ot the fear of never knowing what’s next, because everything’s here. Or the next moment, when everything’s not. Why do I write? Why do I live and why do we stay here, living and writing with insginificant words and even more insignificant lives, no more important than that of ants. Why live and why survive..Why stay up nights or even worse, why stay up days?

WE don’t live for our dreams. We search for them and we run behind them but when the world comes crumbling down, there isn’t a background score while the tears flow and there isn’t anything philosophical or meaningful. It feels bad and we cry because we can do nothing else. Nothing else because we don’t know why or why not. Fear moves in and out of our lives and all we have to do is stay and watch as if foreign to the very being that moves as our feet does, sees with our eyes and hears the wind through our ears. But being alien to all of this, and being incapable of understanding of fearing life itself, is different. Why do I write? I write for someone who will read, I speak for someone who will listen and I act for someone who will witness. And the search for that someone is all that matters, all that has mattered. But right now, in this moment, in this moment of unknowing, in this moment where we are edging our body to give us that hope or that break, that moment when we realize, ah, it’s pointless to be broken, we need to live and hope, but no. Nothing arises. There is nothing because all the logic, we have thought of, all the escape plans, analyzed, all the quotes and quotable sayings heard and repeated and all the philosophical musings, mused. So why write? Why survive when all is lost? When our bodies and our minds give no hope but to stand against time as it flows till you rot and fall by the flesh, do you smile? Do you jest to the Gods to look down and grace you with intervention and then enlightenment? It makes no sense because nothing seems to matter, nothing except the pointless gaze of sightless eyes, and there isn’t drama or pain or suffering, simply the clean, fresh, nothing.

I write to communicate. But when there is no one to communicate to, I write. Not because everything will be okay, not because I will be, but because the world needs to hear this. I write and I live to smile and to laugh in the words if not in the flesh, I write and I live to look at those around me, hear the wind and smell the things, even if the body seems surreal and unnecessary. I write to surrender myself to the chaos and randomness, that nothing matters and to go on as mundance, unnecessary beings is our calling, because I am afraid of Death and the Darkness when I have to be, but afraid of none and naught when the time needs me to be. Intellect, emotion and it all combining to allow me to make such words, paint such pictures and say such things that don’t matter, don’t have to exist but simply do, just like the life I live that doesn’t need to go on and is purposeless.

There always was something that I needed to do, something above and beyond the call of duty and to change the world, but it doesn’t matter now, because it will come to me. It doesn’t matter, because the chaos and the fact that none of it matters, give me the power to swim through the shortcuts to that time where I must do what I must. Though nothing matters, and I write now for nobody, and search for nothing and noone, and dream no more, I write. And in fear, live.

I write in fright.

I write the night.

Until next time, love.