And then I think about how I feel now. I could ring either of them to talk, I could pour out everything that's currently crushing me, I could tell some nice kind person on the other end of the phone about some things I feel I can't say anything more about to the people I know, but I know it wouldn't help me. They wouldn't react, they'd just sit there like a certain kind of counsellor, silent. I don't want to train to be that. I don't understand how it helps anyone.
So I suppose it's a night in watching Brigitte Nielson give everyone The Fear as she tries to save the world. I hate depression and everything it makes me. I hate the greyness and the heaviness of it, I hate the way it renders people who care about me temporarily irrelevant, I hate the way my brain offers up impossible solutions and then becomes even more distressed when those solutions prove to be impossible. What are we doing to ourselves, as a race, that so many of us have to feel like this half the damn time?
Oddly, or perhaps not oddly under certain circumstances, I actually feel more guilty for my depression right now than I have done in roughly six years.