What the hell happens when you stop believing in yourself? What next? I can't help but despise all those dickwits in the world who mistake melancholy for depression; those unenthusiasts who just need a trip to the gym, or a day off, or a good lay or a laugh or a fucking night out on the town, some chocolate, some sleep, some down time, some up time, some, god fuck you and your glumness.
When you don't want to live, really, truly, want no part in life. When your dirty and hungry and smelly and pale and you can't laugh, you're too tired to move your mouth, throw that word, that filthy, loathed depression around. Throw that word around. There is no such thing as the functioning depressed. When the meds, the nights out, the exercise, the good laugh and the chocolate is no longer doing the trick and all you want is for it all to end, throw that fucking word around.
Your blue is not my black, your frown is not my agony, your sluggishness not my hopelessness. No, I don't think I have it worse than anyone else, I think I'm lacking. I have nothing tangible to display, to bring forth your sympathies. I am not a pretty face or a falling legacy. I'm just an everyday person, a pair of feet on the pavement, a woman in line at the grocery store buying tampons at exorbitant prices from greedy men's fingers and better cover up for my wrinkles and acne and bags and sadness and inferiority. There is nothing poetic or nobel behind my tears. Basic and breathing and filled with regret and ashamed for those passed too soon, not ready to go, I would give them my body and my health and my beauty, gladly, gratefully, to see it all in the hands of the deserving. Gladly. Gladly.
Why the hell am I here?
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