Man of Constant Sorrow

I wish I could stop crying.

It isn’t something that occurs for any real reason. I just cry too easily for my liking.

Oh, there is a underlying reason. The depression and also just being here blah blah blah but it isn’t a real reason, at least the depression isn’t.

Of course, people say that I should talk to people. This is good advice. I tell others to speak to people. But it doesn’t work in my case because I can’t take advice from anyone I think is not as intelligent as I am. Yes, I am a conceited ass as well.

A misery shared isn’t a misery halved. It is a misery doubled. I get both halves. Talking to others doesn’t make me feel better, it just compounds the despair that I already feel. And it hurts, it hurts so much when people force me to talk about it. When I am not talking about it, I am not thinking about it. When I talk about it, every word is like a brick impacting what I laughingly call my soul. It is a physical pain.

I also don’t take advice from people who smoke or take drugs because, well, would you take you advice from someone who willingly and knowingly damages their body? You wouldn’t take advice from someone who couldn’t stop setting their feet alight, would you? I would defend your right to smoke but it is just something that I don’t want a part of.

Drugs on the other hand, there is no excuse. Somebody once told me that “drugs set you free”, to which I immediately said, “Yes, free from intelligence and living to a ripe old age”. This person was homeless, so maybe he also meant that he was free from having to live in a nice warm house. He said, “coffee and alcohol are drugs as well, why not ban them if you are so down on drugs”. This is a good point but as I said to him, neither coffee or alcohol will kill you if you drink them responsibly. Drugs can kill anyone or in the best case scenario, just leave them in a coma or paralysed. Drugs are a ticking bomb that can go off at any moment. When was the last time you heard of someone having a pint of beer and then falling into a coma? It is possible but the likelihood is incredibly low.

But this is all besides the point.

I spend most of my nights just crying in the dark. It isn’t nice to feel like you are utterly alone. It really isn’t. I guess that it is something that I deserve.

This is why people like me kill themselves. They just can’t handle it any more. Not that I would, at least not that I would want to do so.

It isn’t fair. All I would like is a day where I don’t cry. During the summer, I can tell people that I have hay fever. But in Autumn and Winter, I have no excuses for openly weeping. I am just broken.

I just don’t want to be here or endure another day of this sheer torture.

If people ask why I am crying, what can I say? Because I feel sad? People don’t understand, nobody does/can. Depression doesn’t have physical properties. It isn’t as if I have lesions on my face warning everyone that I carry the sadness virus. It is a plague though, one which a lot of people don’t recognise or simply refuse to believe exists.

An infamous British ‘journalist’ said that people with depression should just “buck up” and “stop moping about”. Also we should “snap out of it”. This same attention-seeker is going through a horrific illness at the moment, and I bet that she wouldn’t like people to tell her to snap out of it. This is more common than you might think.

How are you meant to be undepressed when your surroundings are as toxic as the sheer ignorance vomited out by rent-a-gob hacks? More and more I look at where I am, at the people around me, and I think ‘why am I still here?’ I have come to the conclusion that there is no point to anything. Not really, not for me.

There is no respite. There is only this.

If you feel like this as well, talk to someone, anybody. Don’t be an ass like me.


About greebohobbes

All-round irritant, expert swordsman (loves lopping off the heads of ghouls), professional charlatan and outrageous wearer of black cocktail dresses...
This entry was posted in BekHobbes, depression, humanity, opinion, questions, reallife, sorrow. Bookmark the permalink.

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