Depression Guilt

Q. Do you know what sucks more than having an attack of the honest-to-god why-havent-I-killed-myself-yet, cant stop crying/have forgotten what expressing emotion feels like, never moving ever again, completely irrational blues?

A. The ‘not-really-sure-whats-wrong’, sorry to bother you, would-kill-myself-if-it-weren’t-such-a-bother-to-other-people, not worth ever worrying about/probably  coping, greys…

I hate feeling guilty and useless and miserable about feeling guilty and useless and miserable. At least when complete irrationality kicks in, other people’s feelings are so impossibly distant as to be unreal; suicide doesn’t seem pathetic and selfish and hateful it feels like a goal to try and work yourself out of bed for.
In the midst of the angst of the ‘greys’ I simultaneously want to tell everyone how horrible I feel but also can’t bear to mention it for fear of ruining their day or making them feel obliged in some way to help. I hate the feeling that just beyond my reach is the ‘answer’ – that sure and certain knowledge that if I just tried harder, was nicer to other people, exercised more, volunteered for charity, slept properly, got more sunshine, did my mindfulness exercises and was basically an all-round better person I would feel good. At least when the blues have really kicked in that sure and certain knowledge is that resistance is futile, that somehow I am fundamentally beyond all help – its less tiring even if its more dangerous and less sustainable long-term.

Stupid Brain, Stupid Me.

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