Almost three weeks ago, I had every intention of killing myself.

I am still fighting the urge to give up, to jump off a cliff, even though I have been going all week to the partial hospitalization program. I am being weaned off my old med and will start the new one on Saturday morning. I have the pills right here, ready to go. As much as I despise writing about this hell that I find myself in, the lady that I speak to every morning told me to do it anyways.

So here I am.

Depression. Unless you have it, you have no comprehension on how it steals your life away from you. You lose the ability to smile, to laugh, to feel anything but immense sadness and despair. To see other people happy feels like a knife in your soul. Because you can’t feel it yourself, so you are envious.

I feel like a burden, a spoiled glass of milk that no one wants to drink. Talking to other people is painful, because I feel as though I am unable to offer more than my misery to them. Most of my relationships are suffering from being so severely depressed.


Depression is like a fucking hurricane, destroying everything in its path.