Wednesday Writes: I Hate Depression

I hate fighting with myself every day.

I hate that I can’t hate depression enough.

I hate the Stockholm syndrome that I developed for it.

I hate not feeling safe.

I hate feeling tolerated.

I hate not being immediately gratified.

I hate not knowing whether I’m meant to be breathing. The anxiety suffocates and surrounds me daily. The oxygen can feel like drowning sometimes.

I hate lying to myself that I’m fine. I hate reciting the same script to others and expecting a different response.

I hate pushing people away because I think my existence is a constant agitation. Or I assume their motives aren’t for my well-being, but for their comfort.

I hate that failure is a friend that calls me every day and sarcastically asks me how I’m doing as if he doesn’t already know.

I hate that my addictions become my anatomy. I wake up and sleep with them still covering my skin. I wander tainted, cursed and conscious about my own wretchedness.

I hate that my pain hasn’t led to any gains, but simply more pain.

I hate seeing God as an afterthought. I hate the way God made me. I hate my prayers replicating the dialogue of an awkward first date.

I hate not feeling happy when I should be. I hate the optimism that abandoned me long ago. I hate the innocence that traveled back in time and stayed there.

I hate the curves of a smile. The highs of hope that fades with each passing second. Happiness, a foreign feeling I can never get familiar with. Forever a stranger.

I hate the version of people that pretend to care. The voices of those that don’t understand but assume an all-inclusive solution exists and I just have to reach for it.

I hate the version of you that do care but doesn’t show up when I need you the most. Furthering the cycle into infinity.

I hate venting and no one truly listening.

I hate regression.

I hate accepting the way things are.

I hate my thoughts.

I hate my doubts.

I hate losing people.

I hate not having enough words to describe my condition.

I hate that I wrote all this, knowing that I’ll probably repeat this later on.

I hate everything.

I hate living.

I hate depression.

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