TW: Depression

I am not having a good day today.

The specifics behind this bad day are not really important. In fact, I have a strong suspicion that mentally healthy people, upon reading about the things that have made me so upset today, would consider me to be totally overreacting. This is because mentally healthy people don’t slide into spirals of self-destructive thoughts every time something goes wrong.

One of the many terrible things about my life with depression is this: I cannot ask for what I need. Especially not if what I need is emotional support. I cannot ask for what I need because I do not deserve to have needs. I am the one person in the world who ought to be totally, 100% self-sufficient in every way, and if I cannot live up to that (obviously impossible) standard, then I am a total failure of a human being.

Since I still stubbornly insist on having needs despite the impeccable gargoyle logic displayed above, the most I can do about getting those needs met is ask indirectly, passively, and hope someone likes me enough to hear it and recognize it. But asking directly is out of the question. Every act of kindness, every favor done for me, is a gift. It’s not something I deserve. I have no right to expect it, I am not entitled to it, and to ask for it outright is completely out of the question.

This is the reality of life with the gargoyle. It is pretty much the most exhausting thing I can imagine. Sometimes I am able to take a step back and look at the way my own brain works and I am just amazed that I can live like this. Because this is an impossible way to live. And then I imagine having to go on like this for another thirty, forty, fifty years, and I feel myself shriveling up and shrinking away because who could take this kind of abuse for that length of time?

Who should have to?

And yet the only other option is equally exhausting to contemplate. I started seeing a therapist this week, which is a good first step, but oh my god, it is going to be such a slow and difficult process and thinking about doing it just makes me so tired. I’m so frustrated right now. I wish I could just be better.

If there is any cause for optimism in any of this, it’s that I have survived this long. And I am better than I was, so there’s reason to believe I can get better still. And there is this fact, too: that despite what I tell myself, people actually do love me. I have proof.

I have the proof because there are people that hear my indirect and passive requests for support, and they offer it. The gargoyle wants me to believe that no one really cares about me, and he insists that no one ought to. That I deserve loneliness.

The gargoyle is wrong. I know that. Someday I am going to learn to feel it. Someday I am going to learn to believe it.

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