You bought a car because it was owned by Jon Voight?

Content Warning:  Sweary as fuck, angry, and unsafe for anyone feeling fragile/suicidal.

 

 

I’ve gone and tripped into severe depression.  I usually only dabble in low-level depression.  For some reason, I forget what it’s like to be severely depressed soon after I stop experiencing it.  I can recall feeling wrecked, but my mind shies away from remembering it well or lingering.  There were signs, but I don’t tend to pay attention until one of them smacks me in the head.

All the things I worry about silently have surfaced and demanded I pay up in stomach acid, anxiety, and restlessness.  My thoughts are all over the place.  I forget what I was about to do every time I try to do something.  I can’t find my empathy.  I feel cold and emotionally detached.  It feels like I’m on a rollercoaster.  Every few minutes my stomach drops like I’m free falling.  I’m out of breath like I just sprinted, yet I’m sitting here, rigid and numb.  I want to run so badly, but it’s against the rules.  I have very strict rules during these episodes.  It’s how I’ve lived this long.

I don’t interact with people when severely depressed.  I also don’t drive, shop online, or leave my home.  It upsets me how severe depression alters my thoughts.  I feel like a parasite has invaded my mind and has taken control while I’m still in here, alarmed by what it’s doing.  But nobody can hear me scream.  Some parasite hijacked my perception.  Intellectually, I’m aware it’s because I’m depressed, but this fucking parasite doesn’t believe me.

It’s like I’m in a heated debate with the parasite over which of our perceptions is accurate.  I used to like debating.  Now it just makes me tired.  The parasite insists everyone I know despises me overtly, and everyone realizes it but me.  How the fuck do I debate that?  So I wing it and throw out statistical norms.  I’m not falling for that shit this time!  So of course, the parasite comes at me with my sparkling history of making and maintaining friendships.  (It doesn’t sparkle at all, it’s sarcasm.)  Damn.  Right in the nuts.  Sigh.

That’s alright.  Fuck everyone.  Fuck you, fuck me, and fuck that guy over there.  I can convince myself I don’t care if everybody hates me.  I’m autistic; I’ve had lots of practice.  So take that, you parasitic prick-face.  And more of the like.  I’d like to go for a run.   But shit!  Why does it have to be so fucking hard?  I want my mind back.  I need it!  I was using it!  It’s fucking mine!  Parasite, get out and die in a fire!

I want to break lots of things.  Preferably those that shatter on impact.  Why am I so angry?  Why am I feeling this way when I didn’t do anything wrong?  I do every little fucking thing depression demands.  It’s a lot.  I could use that time to do other stuff.  But no, I have to fucking deal with depression.  I have to fucking exercise even when I don’t fucking want to.  I have to pass on delicious things like Cheetos and Pringles because if I indulge just one fucking time, I fall off a fucking cliff of despair.  Is that fair?  No.  No, that is not fucking fair.

This shit should only happen to people who are hateful and vile and mean.  The ones who do horrible shit to others just because they’re fucking evil.  They’re the ones who should have a parasite in their brain trying to convince them life isn’t worth enduring times like these.  But no, I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.  I hate this.  It isn’t worth it.  I just keep fighting likely out of habit.  Maybe one day I’ll be the first person to die from eating Cheetos (in a roundabout way only others who get it comprehend.)  Although, it would be cool to die hilariously.  I’m going to go stim and not die.  Because fuck depression.

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