I knew the depression was real. I had gone on a drunken binge and when I sobered up I knew. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I did not want to be me anymore, in fact, I did not want to be. The warm breeze rushing through the open windows felt like ice across my body. The noises of suburbia that filtered in were making me ill. Blow it up. Tear it down. Watch it burn. I had enough. I was done. It was over.
I really knew it was over because I could not even muster up the energy to off myself. I wanted all thoughts to stop. My existence was sickening me but I could not put myself out of my misery. It was a passionless maddening that encompassed my soul. I could not free myself from this self-imposed bondage.
I could feel the happiness from the outside world and it was suffocating me. I felt like I was drowning. The laughter, the joy, the acceptance of mediocrity were like waves pulling me down. I resented people’s ability to go through the motions. I wanted them to understand that happiness is fake, it’s inauthentic and disingenuous. How could they not feel the debilitating sadness that was reality? Was I the only one who could feel it or did they feel it too but just refuse to accept it as reality?
It never occurred to me that people’s deceptions to themselves are the worst of all. Being dishonest and untruthful internally are what allow their happiness to exist. So there is no true happiness, it is a sham. If you need to deceive to be happy, then happiness is not real. Kill yourselves.