Friday, December 26, 2014

It is the eve of my 27th birthday. I have spent it at a movie, drinking, in tears, harassing my boyfriend (in sequential order). My life is a mess and, according to the older souls, still very young. It seems torturous to think of this life as something that is only just beginning. How much more of this can I stand? I ask myself. How much longer will it be this way? Philosophers tell me that it is, in so many words, all in my head. Psychologists tell me there is a chemical imbalance and a prescription for that. The people I wish I were tell me to pick myself up by my bootstraps and MAKE IT HAPPEN. I wonder, what the fuck did their parents put in their cheerios that gave them these bootstraps of steel? Because mine are useless, floppy, and extremely malleable except in the direction of "up". I have been diagnosed with depression. A sickness that, to the free and happy and ambitious world, means lazy, pessimistic and incorrigible. My parents don't even bother with my feelings of hopelessness anymore. They'll just "talk to me tomorrow when I'm in a better mood". Guess I'll call them next year. Why are some people in their element in happiness? Why is it easy for them to wake up in the morning and do shit? And why does it feel like I'm drawing the blueprints for a skyscraper when I plan for the three errands I need to run on a Tuesday? I won't lie: the depression excuse pisses me off too. I'm a smart girl; I know when I'm miserable for no apparent reason. I know that I cannot afford to lay in bed on any given day, but I do, and I feel shitty for it. I don't think I'd feel guilty if I were simply depressed. I feel guilty because I understand that I am wasting fucking time. I understand that I am a completely capable adult with a healthy body and a beautiful mind and I am doing absolutely nothing about it. And my dad is getting pissed off. And my mom is getting tired. And my boyfriend is wonder why the hell he is still dealing with this shit. And, for once in my life, I agree with them.