It’s not so easy being hard.

According to this site, I’m currently:

“People with scores similar to yours are typically suffering from a moderate to severe depressive episode. This is also known as clinical depression or just plain depression”

Heh.

I am. That’s the thing. I sat on the plane the other day wondering if it was normal to be thinking about the songs you want played on the radio when you die. Obsessively thinking about them. I’m scared because it’s almost a peaceful thought, the images of my funeral, the quiet sadness of it and yet the imagined inevitability. In my head it plays it self out perfectly.

Of course that isn’t how life works, and funeral’s tend to be full of people left behind-children, parents. But fuck me if I can’t shake this feeling of “gonna happen” from my back. The harder I fight it off, the more I try to resist the allure of these tiny voices in my head, the worse it seems to get.

I don’t want to die. I tell myself this a zillion times a day. It’s my brain, not me. There is no magical “better” place to go after this one, nothing that will absolve my guilt or self loathing. There is only now.

But I tell you, nothing triggers a depressive episode, or at least some rather interesting mood swings like running on about 25 hours sleep over 4 or 5 days. Unfortunately, these always end in bloodletting fantasies. I’m sad. I’m just sad, and nothing can shake it from me. Even my manic shaking while grabbing my much lusted for latte couldn’t dislodge the monkey of “go ahead, just do it” from my head.

Know that scene in Fight Club where Ed Norton blows himself in the head to get rid of Brad Pitt? It’s kinda like that, but without the hallucinations.

I often feel as if there are two people inside my head-the happy, slightly zippy fun to be around, laughs at your jokes Dora. Then there’s the depressed, should have been a goth kid but found them kinda tacky, feels fat as all get out and hates herself almost to death Dora. Somedays they hold hands, pet puppies and eat soft serve. Other days, it’s a battle of the wills, and only one can win, leaving me holding the bag as well as some dissonance in between my ears. Like cotton fuzz between my eyes.

They switch places frequently and quietly, without my knowledge. They leave me drunk on emotion. They stare wistfully at a darkened sky over New York as we fly past, trying to imagine all the lives we’re flying over, all the lives we’ll never be, never stood a chance of being. They whisper to each other how we could have just walked onto a train in New Jersey and never looked back.

“Fuck you” I tell them.