This morning I started a post about how to feel better when depression is getting the best of you. But that felt hypocritical to write, because I feel like shit.

Depression and anxiety sucks. It makes everything awful, and it’s one of those self-consuming things where even though you want to feel better, you don’t want to make yourself feel better. It almost feels self-indulgent to wallow in those awful feelings.

I hate feeling like this. I feel useless. Everyone I went to high school with is growing up, getting married, having real adult jobs, and I’m still on an academic schedule, living with my mother. I’ve accomplished nothing in the five years I’ve been out of high school. I babysit for a living. That’s a job for middle schoolers who can’t find a real job. I feel like everyone is moving on with their lives, without me.

Maybe it’s all the shit that is somehow my responsibility. My brother and I are going to India in June and I’m in charge of getting the visas and everything and the website is unhelpful and confusing and I’ve had to start over six times and I just want to scream. I have screamed. I’ve had tantrums over a goddamn website. I hate how whiny I sound but I’m so sick of everyone delegating things to me. I’m sick of being everyone’s secretary. I’m sick of having to postpone things I want to do because every time I try doing something for myself, someone needs me to do something for them, and that things is clearly more urgent than whatever I’m about to do. I’m sick of feeling like I don’t matter.

And I can’t talk to anyone about it, because growing up, my family was very take-two-motrins-and-get-over-yourself. Being hurt, feeling bad, there was no room for that. My parents got a divorce when I was eight. It was messy. I had to be happy and upbeat for everyone else. I had to pretend nothing was wrong with me because there was no room to be upset. Being upset was self-indulgent, was selfish, and even now I can’t talk about how I feel or admit to anyone that I’m less than absolutely fine because that feels selfish. I feel like I’m not worth worrying about. I hate it, and half the time, I hate myself.

Even here, on this blog, I force myself to write happy, upbeat things. Recipes peppered with funny-ish jokes, silly stories from when I was a kid. On Facebook, I only post happy things, stupid jokes, weird things my cats do. Instagram is even worse. You have to be happy on the internet. Whenever I admit I’m upset, I feel so selfish. So goddamn melodramatic. Whiny. I can’t be happy all the time though, and more often than not, I’m not happy.

Someone I used to trust told me that I shouldn’t measure myself by someone else’s progress. Great advice, sure. But it’s hard not to do. I feel like I’m stagnating, getting stale, wasting my life, when everyone around me is moving forward.

I wish I had a clever, poignant way to end this post. I’m not sure if I’ll even publish it. But I’m not clever and poignant, and I just want to go back to bed.

This picture makes me happy. My cats are judgmental assholes.
This picture makes me happy. My cats are judgmental assholes.

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