A look into a writer’s depression – part 1
“Love yourself!” they said.
Myself? I don’t know what that means. I have lost myself. I was a child, an adult, a writer, and now I am nothing. There is no greater punishment than losing yourself.
Everybody keeps saying ‘you’re so beautiful’, ‘you’re so talented’. Really? Because I don’t feel beautiful or talented. I feel like a waste of space and time and I think everybody hates me but they are smiling at me at the same time.
I’m not worth it. I’m not. You can lose yourself so easily but it’s so hard to find yourself again. You wake up every morning, you look in the mirror at your reflection and it feels like every inch of your skin is ugly and you have no purpose. Where is that person who used to play with words and created beautiful verses? Where is the writer? It feels like there is no place that feels like home and you have nobody by your side.
You can’t take the pain and the loneliness anymore. You cry yourself to sleep instead of saying ‘goodnight’ to someone because there is no one to say ‘goodnight’ to.
Every day feels like a waste of time, but still, you don’t find enough time to do anything, not even to cry. It’s a continuous rush. Scribbled pages are scattered on the floor. But I don’t have time to write something, the writer in me is gone. I am paralysed, tied to this bed unable to move. I am afraid the hourglass is faster. The sun is setting, it’s too late.
You are so sad and depressed that you’re not sad anymore, you are numb; you just are. A meaningless entity whose shadow darkens the earth for nothing. And nothing matters anymore and you decide to stay in bed all day long doing nothing but thinking. Thinking about the past? No, it doesn’t exist anymore. Why worry about something dead? Thinking about the future? But your future doesn’t matter anymore. All that remains is the present. But the present is too painful. The tears keep falling, the pain doesn’t stop.
Everything appears to be falling apart. You drift off to sleep.