I’m depressed. Not the mild, oh-no-I-think-I-may-cry-a-minute kind. More like the endless pit of loneliness and despair kind. I’ve been crying a lot lately, and I mean, for hours straight I will sit and be in tears. I feel like absolute and utter crap. I’ve been getting more and more depressed for months, but my mom keeps trying to convince me that I’m not depressed. It’s one of those lovely time periods where I haven’t been acting the part, so she doesn’t believe I’ve been feeling it. Well, I have been feeling it, and denying it hasn’t been helping. Telling myself that I’m not miserable is not making me happy. It’s not even helping me put up a brave face anymore. I’m depressed. I’ve wanted to cut, but I haven’t actually done any cutting. (Mainly because my lovely razor won’t cut anything at all ever.) I have been able to scrape my leg with my finger nails. (Yay for being able to accomplish one thing in my life.)
I’m considering dropping out of college…for good. I’m sick of going. I’m sick of anxiety. I’m sick of paranoia. I’m sick of getting out and putting myself out there, and not having anything good come of it. I’m tired. I’m always tired. I want to sleep. I want the ability to be able to sleep when I’m tired and stay away from people when I just don’t feel like dealing with the world.
I just want a break from reality. A real break from reality. I can’t have one, though. No one would allow me the chance to recuperate from life.