What It’s Like Inside The Head of a Depressed Guy

I wish I were dead.

I wish I could close my eyes one day and never wake up. 

Again. 

But that will be difficult in many ways.

For one, in your twenties, people rarely die in their sleep. Even if you’re not completely perfect, health-wise, your health will deteriorate later, often not in your early years.

So, each night, I lie on my bed, stare at the ceiling, and think of the best ways to leave the world without causing trouble. 

This place doesn’t make sense, or does it? Why does life exist? What is this experiment? We are all like rats in a cage, running around trying to survive on food, water, and whatever we can find: a job, a home, sex, drugs, whatever, or someone else’s things, even their lives. I read a quote the other day: ‘Life is for those who can take it by force.’ And it makes me rewind a bit back to one important question: who creates life? Which is not as important as, what was the intention? Is this how it was intended? Taking life on brute force, like forcing a dead car engine to work.

To see everyone running around, masking their troubles with a smile, or strong will to stay alive.

Well, the fan is working today. It used to stop working when it felt like it, and for once, I had left it alone just like I had stopped doing a lot of things, so many, many things. Like reading or writing or having a shower every day. Nothing interests me.

No one comes into the house. I don’t expect anyone. I think I am a burden to all of them. I think I have been a burden enough, and that’s why I am looking for the best possible exit that will not cause chaos. 

Am I afraid of death? Because these thoughts have been in my head for years, and I haven’t dared to end the misery.

No, I am not of death. I am afraid of pain of all kinds. The pain from wounds on injury, for instance, a knife. There is a reason I haven’t thought of jumping down from somewhere tall. One, because there are not many tall buildings around. Two, physical pain.

Drinking substances won’t solve the fear of pain, either. It takes lots of time for such things to start its effect, and a whole lot more time when the body fights and fights.

But there is a reason such things as cutting oneself or tying one’s neck to the ceiling with legs dangling are inviting — as difficult as it may look –– and it is because of the pain of everyday troubles. There are many questions I am trying to answer. When will I be free? When I get some peace, I quickly ask how long it is before the next confusion. Most days, life is like walking through a land filled with hot charcoal; you’re barefoot, and some aircraft are at the top of the sky, threatening to rain bombs and end your world. But it’s personal. A bit. People share the same troubles you are going through — if you start asking questions on the internet and forums anonymously — but still in a different way.

Life. What’s the purpose? 

It’s not different from being animals. Be born, procreate or mate, struggle, then die. Because how do squirrels see us? They probably see us as some figures who struggle to live every day and make things happen. Maybe small things. Maybe big things. You must go to war to live long, either with yourself, your body, or life itself. Or your government or your girlfriend. And then, you’ll die. And that will be the end of everything on earth. What’s the point of all that? You think you will leave a legacy behind, but that’s probably because you have not been paying attention to old or dead people. They can’t remember. They can’t remember their own sons or the way to their rooms. They can’t remember. You won’t remember when you die.

My life itself is a cycle of I want to die — I want to maybe take a break from everything — I want to die. There are a few things happening in between, but these three stages are consistent. A lot of things are happening to me. In my head, I have no control over anything. Nothing works. There is no simple arithmetic to getting what I want out of life. Two plus two isn’t giving me four, and not when you add another four and another four and another four, for what looks like years. I am tired. How could it be this way? 

But truth be told, what I want is within. A peace of mind. To be at peace. To just closed my eyes and smiled, smiling at how my life and mental wellness have been. I like me. 

Have I experienced that before, the inner peace?

Yes, a couple of times. I emailed someone that I wanted to work with them, and they said yes. I moved to a new city and got the kind of home I have always dreamed of. A beautiful place, the city and the home. I like it. I met the girl of my dreams and had plans to ask her out. And then what? 

Then, life happened. These longings for more out of life crept into my heart like it had some cracks, somewhere. I hated life. I wanted more out of it. I hated being around. I hated the sound of everything, but walking around at night as if I would meet someone who would scream out at me in the dark, saying, “I see you, and I know what you are going through. I know how you feel. This is normal. You will overcome.”

It is not always about money, but life could be worse without money. Being alone. No good food, no resources to live life or have basic things is worse. I think about death every second of it, every long night. The difference between having money and not having it when depressed is that you could buy yourself a little more time. You could afford a bottle of Coke, maybe. Depending. A bottle of beer. Depending. A lavish dinner. Depending. A car or an expensive vacation. With money, you can trick yourself into being happy.

Without money, you want to die quickly. With it, you choose a different approach; buying things that give you dopamine or fickle excitement, equals buying more time until you can’t anymore.

It’s not always about money. It is the continuous fight for meaning, the cycle of thick unhappiness that nothing can solve. Not thinking. Not money. Nothing. 

So, mental pain is the burden to keep on fighting to live or survive when you don’t want to anymore. They call it depression. No way out of this problem. No way out, mate.

And if there is a way out, another mental breakdown waits around the corner. It’s there. You can feel its warmth. It’s scary. So, the thought of this pushes you to the edge one day, and you decide to end it all. You choose the kind of pain that you think you’re afraid of: physical pain. You want to end the other or worse kind of pain, the one you have been battling one day at a time: the mental pain. It’s all going to be over soon. It’s all going to be over. All you have to do is bear the pain. For how long would it take for your bowels to surrender their fight against an overdose of drugs? An hour at most. You hold on. Your stomach is burning. You imagine it. How painful.

Then, damn. You woke up and started crying. It’s just a dream. In there, in that fairytale place, you did wish it was real, that your heart should have ceased at some point, and you wouldn’t have to worry about earthly things anymore. That everlasting peace that looks like sleep on a dead man’s face, you want that. 

One day, somehow, if you are like me, you stop worrying about death. You are not afraid of it. You’re simply tired of wishing. You just want to live until it’s your turn to answer to death, whichever way it would like to take you. The head of a gun in your mouth or peacefully in your sleep.

And for the sake of people who would be devastated to see you dead. Their trauma would be worse than what you’re feeling. It’s hard to think about that.

So, now there is a way I have found to live life, and I can summarise it in two words: love and dedication. Being loved wholly and romantically can be the best thing to happen to you. Dedication is another thing. And it is about finding what you care about and want to do for the rest of my life and committing to it. And there is an overlap. When you dedicate to something, it means you love it. When you love something or someone, you’re devoted to them, their well-being, and happiness. It’s like committing to things greater than you. A meaning.

Life is work. Life is love.

Sit tight, though. All of that would come crumbling, reminding you why the feeling of quitting life was so strong.

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