How I loathed depression.
How useless it made me to myself and the others around me. The loneliness, a hollow experience only few could understand. The disparity I exerted to be away from it all.
It was like bondage that never undid its chains. I often thought ending my life would solve the problem of having to live so compromised by never wanting to be noticed yet needing someone who could notice me all day. Even then, being in a relationship codependent on someone's attention was no way to live. I was never the person my partner nor exes needed me to be. Perhaps that was the reason why they hurt me.
The pain I felt mentioned last manifested in my own choice of actions out of lust. And I loved it. It was simply like sailing in a sea of naughty notions that was worth getting my heart torn out. Until I met my partner.
This experience was different.
He made me fall in love with him.
It was enchanting in its own way. He knew what he was doing and so did I. We bonded through sex and our compatibility touched the sky. The way he held me. His kisses. How he knew exactly what I needed without asking; I'd return the favour ever so obediently and he couldn't enjoy it more.
But I couldn't keep it together. We hurt each other enough times that being happy as fish swimming in a lake seemed like only a dream. Our communication began to limit itself; he would stare at his phone for too long and I would accordingly withdraw. I always struck first but his retaliation was lethal to my ability to trust him again.
I became hell. I would start fights over my jealousy, anger and resentment I couldn't seem to let go of. Aiding my forming negative thoughts were the occasions his stupid friend would call him up reminiscing about the past — which only seemed to involve talk of my boyfriend's exes. I couldn't help but act on my disdain often.
He would narcissistically respond as though I was crazy. Which I wasn't. I knew something was fucking wrong no matter how much he wanted to hide that he lost most of his affection for me. He broke my trust, he ate my confidence, and shattered my heart.
I couldn't tolerate feeling stripped of my dignity for long. Eventually I just became an unfeeling statue of a person. I was comfortable with being yelled at. Screamed at. Insulted. He degraded me on a daily basis, for whatever reason, I don't know. But I received the message in his actions with no intention of leaving our dead relationship.
It wasn't that I loved the situation I was in. Being emotionally neglected was nothing new to me. No longer having my needs met, given I was groomed, was the only process I was familiar with. I must have made it easy.
There was also the fact that I loved him so much. I looked up to him. Everything about him made me happy. But I was just a figure in his life that annoyed him.
I genuinely hated myself. Nothing could undo that. I remained disappointed in my failures, along with my fifteen minutes of doing well until I'd bury my nose in drugs again. Cocaine and ketamine had a grip on me for many years that never seemed to end but blend into each other.
At least I quit shooting up coke after an abscess removal surgery. Had it not been for him urging me, I wouldn't have seen my doctor imminently.
My drug use was going to be the end of me, if not depression itself. I could never stay off hard substances for longer than three months. It felt wrong to stay sober, knowing everything sucked whether or not I committed to such achievements in life.
Because the short term illusion fun is will always fade in time.
Imagine looking above you and seeing no sky, but only pitch black, for you are in a hole in the ground, one no one bothers to notice. Every so often you believe you will find a way out. Only for a boulder to land on you. But not kill you. You remain in that place for the rest of your life. In a state of morbid shock. One that controls your actions more than you'd like.
That was the truth of the nightmare.
Living was a nightmare that I despised. When I overdosed on fentanyl, I had no regard for the fact that I was saved by my partner and the hospital. No such thing as a grateful response to a second chance existed inside of me. I didn't care. That was how deep my hatred for being went — I couldn't even be glad I was still kept alive. I just wanted it to be over.