I don’t deserve my depression.
It’s not something I asked for. I never romanticized it. Laying in bed feeling so empty that I’m paralyzed is not my idea of a good time. I’m not pretending in order to get condescending looks veiled in sympathy, and nosy questions filled with concern. I don’t think it makes me more interesting, or a better artist, or validates my emotions.
My depression is not a desperate plea for attention like a vague Facebook status update.
I don’t masochistically enjoy watching everyone else be happy around me, while I fight to get through the day. It’s not an excuse to avoid responsibility. I am not depressed because I am lazy and won’t do inconvenient or difficult things to better my life.
I have meditated, and drank more water, and gone on solo trips to find inner peace, and done therapy and more therapy. I work out regularly, and go on vacations, and try new things, and have hobbies that aren’t Netflix and eating Doritos on the couch in my sweatpants. I am not using my depression as an excuse to not live my life.I go outside and I feel the sun on my face and snatch whatever moments of joy I can get.
So when I tell you what’s going wrong, I’m not “wallowing” in it. I’m letting you in and treating you like someone I can trust because I finally don’t have to pretend to be okay all the time.
No, you don’t wish you had my problems. They aren’t magically fixable and self-imposed any more than yours are. Don’t imply that I’m doing this to myself, that I secretly enjoy this on some subconscious level. Don’t claim you’re being empathetic, and then go on to say I have nothing but excuses.
You don’t get to judge whether or not I deserve this.
Nobody asked you.