every bad thought you have about me, I have about myself.
“You,” in this context could mean: the checkout clerk at the grocery store who I think believes that I should lay off the ice cream; the weird coffeeshop guy I just ignored; my husband; my mother; the asshole in fifth grade who accused me of farting in class when I clearly did not, etc etc etc ad nauseum etc.
And if you’re thinking this is whiny and self-pitying and totally self-centered because nobody really thinks about me (or anyone else) that much anyway–well, yeah, I already thought that, too.
Am I too self-referential/too introspective/too obsessive/too hopeless/too hopeful/too depressed/not depressed enough/whiny/dull/self-obsessed/BAD/embarrassing/really should just give up, just so bad…oh my god, I AM BORING.
Will this make me feel worse? Will this make you hate me? Do I care?
This is. a deep hole. I am clawing out of. Who wants to see that?
But really, there’s a reason why there aren’t that many blogs out there about depression. I mean, we are a lazy lot, we depressives*, but we also get fucking sick of thinking about ourselves and our illnesses and figure pretty much everyone is fucking sick of us, too.
Where’s the line between “Hey, I’M NOT OKAY!” and “Waaaah, feel sorry for me!”? Does it matter? Does it de-legitimize a person’s experience as a depressive? Depression and assholism certainly aren’t mutually exclusive.
Does it make me an asshole to focus on these questions in the first place? Probably. Or, at least, very, very tiresome. The check on The State of the Emotional Union 8,10, 20 times an hour or more is tiresome to me, too. No wonder I can’t seem to do much else.
*Obviously, I don’t speak for all depressives and everyone’s experience is different. I could be totally off-base and just relating the story of one self-centered asshat who would be a self-centered asshat with or without mental illness.