Okay so I've been reading Hyperbole and a Half on and off for the last few months, and it 'ended' around 2013. . .
I love this blog. Seriously I really do. I like the analogies, I like the raw feelings, and I like the relate-ability-ness. So I wanted to re-create my own thing based on something I love reading, and maybe I'll actually make it a thing to continue to write.
I have issues with talking about how I feel. A lot of the time I either want to avoid the subject so I'll just lie. I find that some friends don't appreciate being lied to about the feels, and they get really upset and simply don't understand that I'm lying to protect them from my inescapable pessimism to my existence.
On the complete opposite of the spectrum, I have friends who have, by some sorcery, convinced me to disclose my true insides and when I exclaim to them that this is how I feel, how I think, my morals, my outlook on life, my social security number, which cereal I'm really into, and what color underwear I'm currently wearing that it can get a slew of unpleasant mixed responses.
More often then not (or maybe it's just the loudest response) I get lectured. I get blamed. It's my doing. It's my choice. They are right in a way. It is my fault technically. No one forces me to live a certain way, or think a certain way. Yet I have to think it isn't a choice. It's a no way out ultimatum. I'm sad. I'm in pain, and I do what I do to ease that because I see no other way that will work. I'll get a lot of examples about how If I just did it 'this way' or 'that way' it would be the same thing because that is the part of my brain that decides what I'm doing so it's the same.
This confuses the shiz out of me. It could be because I'm stupid, or it could be because I'm young (could be both).
Depression is a terrible thing. It's kills the last bits of you until you aren't really living anymore. In my mind it seems like I'm taking up space for someone else who would live my life in a much more useful and productive way. The days drag by, and the minutes ooze just ever so slowly. I feel like I'm crawling through the marathon of life while everyone else is sprinting. I'm crawling while my knees are bloody, my palms are torn, and I'm getting heat stroke. There are people handing out water and they can't see me, but the other runners are throwing their empty cups and each one hits me in the head as they speed by. Every so often someone will grab the back of my shirt and drag me along for a while. This does bring me forward, and it's grinding dirt, rubble, and broken glass into my skin, but hey I'm further head than I was before.
Asking for help it hard. Wether you've tried before, and didn't get a good response or you haven't tried, but you are gathering up the gumption to do so.
I'm off track. I really need to write myself a play by play for these blog posts.