I wrote the following post a few months ago but was hesitant to share it. Depression isn’t something I’m proud of, but I’d always rather be honest than misleading. For those who are lucky enough to not experience depression, here’s a little insight inside of what it’s like for me, edited for brevity:
Every night I go to bed excited. I’m about to do my favorite thing in the world: sleep. To sleep means to dream. To dream means to escape. To escape means to be happy. Dreams are my one escape to an existence other than my own. A vacation from reality. In my imagination, I am happy. I am who I want to be, surrounded by those I want to be surrounded by. I’m happy there.
Then I wake up. And for a brief, sweet moment, I’m still in the escapes of my dream world. But quickly after, I realize where I am. I realize how I really feel, how things really are, and I’m overcome with sadness. The depression comes over me like waves reminding me of all the mistakes I’ve made, of the terrible person I am. I know I will feel like I’ve wasted another day if I don’t get out of bed soon. But the sadness is a gnawing pain and a deafening numbness all at once. I don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to do anything. But sleep. I want nothing but to slip back into the imaginary reality that makes me forget who I really am, and never wake up. The one thing that gives me hope, that makes me feel a hint of motivation, is the fact that maybe, someday, I won’t.