This morning was hell. The will to lift myself from my friend’s couch waned exponentially and spoiled my insides, costing me my first class of the day. Consciousness devolved into a haunted, sleepless void. I want to die. How my friends convinced me to get up that day, I don’t know, but every aspect of my surroundings was plagued with a layer of desaturation; my gut, caked with viscous contempt; my wrist, decorated with gnarled, carmine stripes. I should not be in the real world.
I have been diagnosed with Melancholia, a fancy alternative to saying “Depression”, which in turn is a fancy way of encompassing an almost indescribable, soul-crushing composition of mental adversary. The former can be seen as a bite-sized term for this diverse complexity. It is easier to understand that the brain, like any other organ, can severely malfunction. In many cases, this can leave one with nagging paranoia, self-contempt, hopelessness, or a multitude of self-destructive habits bundled into a disorienting ellipse of self-blame; depression leaves you feeling horrible about feeling horrible. For treatment, I am prescribed Bupropion, and on a chemical basis, I think it helps. However, no amount of medication is capable of eradicating my sense of
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Today was the first day of a Walking Dead marathon dedicated to introducing the series to me. Kongregation occurred within a stale living room hosting bland couches where hours went by. Over a cluttered coffee table I reached for the energy drink John surprised me with earlier and sipped it, contemplating my math homework. The only other people present were John’s stoned roommate, and a friend of his who’d arrived not long ago. Gradually, John’s friend took over the entertainment devices in the living room, illuminating the screen instead with Grand Theft Auto