Somehow we tend to imagine a depressive person as someone who’s sad. For example I would love to be this woman who cries silent tears in a dignified way and ideally wears flowing black clothes and just expresses incredible sadness. I would also love to be as pensive as all the latently depressed writers from two centuries ago. Or at least a blues singer, that would do as well.
But in fact depression is neither pensive nor glamorous nor interesting in any way. Exhausting, yes. Grey, lonely oh, and have I mentioned exhausting? But not a state in which you have great philosophical ideas.
Depression is walking around in an increasingly dirty flat in your jumpsuit. Feeling that sunshine is exhausting and cancelling appointments because the rain is too cold. Depression is a huge load of cold instant noodles beside a tower made of empty cookie boxes. It is not to really note what people are telling you and not even noticing that they know it. Watching a movie and feeling relieved when it’s over as it means going back to bed. Depression is also a sport: Walking from the bed to the loo, that can be strenuous. It is a language in which elan is a strange word and pointlessness a punctuation mark. It is, all in all, just shitty even if we all pretend that our most hopeless diary entries are not cynical and desperate but profound and realistic.
Today the sun is shining and I’m going to spend the weekend in the sauna with my favourite people. And there will be no place at all for jumpsuits or instant noodles 🙂