A Melancholy Post

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I believe I am a fount of undeveloped potential. I believe my books, if read by the right person, might be scintillating enough to be published, and perhaps even made into films. But, so far, nothing has happened.

Enough about me. What about you? I hope you are having a wonderful time in life, I really do. I’m not one of those people who are bitter and upset if other people’s lives are going well—as one of God’s children, I rarely feel any jealousy when others are happy, and I am not. I hope you are in good health, and doing what you love, and enjoying life to its fullest. I hope you have good family and friends, or spouses and children, and that they are well, too. And I sincerely hope you’re not an unemployed, depressed starving artist who is seriously starting to re-think her dreams of becoming a writer, because they look to be as likely to happen as her becoming an astronaut tomorrow.

I went and saw a movie today. The funny thing is, whenever I am in the middle of watching a movie, for a brief moment, my depression lifts, and I am transported somewhere else. The movie, in case you were wondering, was “Black Panther”, and it was a marvellous film, though not exactly the kind of thing I would usually watch. There was far too much violence in it for me, though I did like the fact that the cast was nearly all African-American, which is unusual. If only they’d make more movies with other minority groups, like Asian-Americans (I am Asian myself, in case you were wondering.)

What else is there to talk about? Lots of things. Money is tight. Extremely tight. Tight enough that I am quite stressed, and biting my nails at night a little bit about it. I’m always afraid to eat out, and worried I spent too much—since I went out with a friend today, and watched a film, I spent around $20, which is over the daily limit that I get from Centrelink each week. I am searching for a job—in fact, right this very moment, I am about to start work experience for my Certificate III in Age Care. I will be working with the elderly, tending to their showering and other daily needs. While it is not the most glamorous job, at the very least it will pay some of the bills. And the hourly rate is around $20, so if I work full-time, which I do not plan on doing so, because of my mental illness, and part-time instead, I could easily earn $300 a week, and help my mother out with the bills.

Shattered dreams. Shattered hopes. It feels as though I’m some kind of grey sludge, crawling from one day to the next, leaving a trail of misery behind me like a big, fat snail. I want to be a writer so badly, it hurts; I want my books shown to the world so badly, when I think about it, I can’t breathe. It’s more than just a passion, or hobby, or a calling: writing, for me, is something that is intertwined with my soul, and the thought of never being successful at it, sometimes, is more than I can bear.

Moments at night, or when you are alone, are the worst. Have you ever been miserable about something, for an extended period of time, and then woken up in the middle of the night, alone in that darkness? Is it not the worst feeling it is possible for a human to experience, almost? Alone, in a galaxy. In the middle of the ocean. That’s what it feels like. As if everyone else is happily going on with their lives, having calm and blissful dreams, while you suffer, and suffer, alone in the dark depths.

I don’t know how I get through the day, and if you are going through something terrible, I don’t know how you get through the day, either. Every single second of existence feels painful, like it’s being dragged across my skin. Change your dreams. Give it up. Forget about becoming a writer. My mother tells me these things, but I don’t listen. I can’t. Writing is something I fell in love with at first sight, and, just like falling in love with a person, it’s impossible for me to stop now. I was fated and doomed the moment I picked up a book, and then picked up a pen to write my own stories. Isn’t that how things usually start? With a look, a glance—and then, you are gone.

Excuse-me for writing such a melancholy post. I’m sure your life is doing much better, and you do not need this little bit of melancholia in your life. Still, I am going to post it, because it is an accurate representation of how the world seems to me at the moment: dark, and depressing. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to find a way out of it. Success is sweet, they say, but failure isn’t bitter, it’s downright poisonous.

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Another Small Piano Tune

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I have been feeling increasingly under the weather lately.

So, one day, I just sat down at the piano, and poured out all of my feelings.

This was the result of that. I hope you like it.

Click HERE to listen to it, or you can click the link below:

https://vocaroo.com/i/s0QCsRn3oEjC

 

A Teardrop of A Dreamer’s Sadness

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I’ve always had the feeling that I should—I don’t know, assert my significance in some way. Not in some egotistical, or grandiose fashion: I’ve just always thought, well, one day, I’ll be a writer, because I am good at it, and have plenty of creative ideas, and, sooner or later, I will get published.

Things haven’t happened like that. Not really. I know I am only twenty years old, but it feels as though I have already lived half my lifetime, with nothing to show for it. And now, as I send out another book, for the third time, to publishers, with little hope, even though I am very proud of the novel and would certainly read the children’s book—and heck, even buy it—myself, I don’t know if anyone, out there, in the world, will find it to be any good.

As a child, I didn’t ever dream of anything except becoming a writer, and now, older, and more grown-up, I’m starting to realise how difficult it really is to get into the industry. And as the days pass by, and I get no email, saying they (meaning the publishers) are interested in my book, and, knowing that I am already halfway to forty, towards a lifetime spent unpublished and unknown, makes me sink, slowly, into the depths of depression.

It is not fame or money that I am after, but literary recognition. I want someone to read my book, and love it—and not just one person, but lots of people. I want lots of people to see my imagination, splashed across the pages of a short, sweet novel. As a writer, I predominantly dabble in children’s books—and, if there’s an industry that’s hard to get into, it’s that one.

I can’t say I’m not a little depressed, as I send another message in a bottle out to the sea, and nothing comes back, no answer, no reply. I am left stranded on my island, alone, with only the seashells and the splash of the waves for company. I don’t think, in this lifetime, I could ever be properly happy without publishing something, by an actual publisher, no matter how small, or insignificant. Even if only one thousand people read it, I would be fine: as long as it’s a book, and it’s out there, I don’t think I’d have anything to complain about. It’s not about the fame, or the money—it’s about the little girl inside of me, with a head full of dreams and fantasies, yearning for them to be seen.

I hope you are having a better week than I am. I hope you are not lonely, that you are romantically involved with someone. It’s always nice to have something like that, someone by your side, a rock, a foundation. I also hope that you are making your way towards your dreams, or perhaps have achieved them already. In this rocky life, we each stand on our own islands, waiting for the messages in bottles we send out to come back to us. Some of us stand and wait for years, just for one reply—other islands are absolutely crowded with glass bottles, each with a missive tucked inside it. And others wait, alone on their islands, until the years grow low, and the sky goes dark, and there’s nothing left, except the sharks for company.

 

Diary Entry 5

 

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Well, it’s the second day of depression, and I haven’t jumped off a bridge or taken any medication, so that’s good. I am still feeling quite apathetic about everything. It’s as if nothing interests me anymore, and everything is boring.  Even the words I am typing right now take a tremendous deal of effort. Everything is painful, and difficult.

I’ve never really felt like I’ve belonged anywhere before. I never had a group of friends, or people who I could hang out with and feel good around. Because I’m depressed, even as I write this, I feel the urge to stop and just lie on my bed and waste away the hours, but I’m not going to do that because it’s not good for my mental health. The urge to kill myself is getting very strong, though I’m still afraid to act on it so it’s likely I won’t be hospitalised any time soon. What was I talking about? Oh, yes. The point, again, by the way, of these diary entries, is for you, dear reader, to feel as though I am sitting with you, and having a conversation. Likely it will be a very boring sort of conversation, with a very sad and melancholy sort of person, but I hope, if you are feeling lonely yourself, or perhaps just might be interested in what I have to say, will glean some comfort or hope from my words. I’ve always been pretty much a loner. It’s strange. I just can’t seem to properly connect with people. Whenever I meet someone and speak to them, we only talk of trivialities, and there’s no deeper connection between us, no spark. I don’t think I’ve met someone ever in life with whom I’ve had an abiding connection with, a sense that we perhaps met in another life, or something like that, and have known each other before. I feel very lonely.

And it’s more than loneliness. I feel alone in my view of life and the world, which is a very bleak one. I don’t know what it is that keeps other people getting out of bed in the morning and living their lives, it’s incomprehensible to me, because everything in the world, when you are depressed, seems so pointless and meaningless. Other people live, laugh, work, eat, breathe, have families, go on holidays, and I feel myself to be entirely removed from that sphere of life, standing on the outskirts and looking in through the window. My greatest fear is that I will live a boring life, doing nothing very much in particular except working, never get married, never be a part of the normal flow of things, and then die, childless and unloved, of old age, in hospital, of cancer or heart failure. I can’t exactly explain it—but I always feel like I’m standing on the outside, looking at other people and their lives, and seeing how wonderful or at least satisfying their lives are, while I am completely lost, on my own, filled with insecurities and loneliness. I don’t know where I fit in. When I look at nature, at trees and grass, at the sky, I see only mindless apathy, an indifference beyond belief.

 

I’m also going through a pretty bad creative slump, and am so tired from lack of sleep for several nights glands inside my neck have swollen up and are very tender and painful. Really, do read this just to feel better about yourself, because all this post is is a litany of complaints on my part. I am going through a major creative slump when it comes to my writing. Normally I have a wealth of ideas—a while ago, I did—but now, the river of inspiration has run completely dry and I am left beached on the dry banks, heaving and spluttering. Writing isn’t an easy job, but it’s never been this bad before, and I am afraid I will never achieve my writing dreams. Granted, I am only nineteen, but that makes no difference; I’m too impatient and overeager, and wish I could snap my fingers to improve my writing prowess, just like that. Okay, now, just then, I felt another powerful urge to stop writing this blog post. To just give up. That’s what depression wants you to do, to relinquish everything and give yourself over to nothingness. I won’t. I will stand strong, and firm. I know I have what it takes to write a good book, but it’ll just take a great deal of time and effort, maybe even years of hard work. But I’ll get there eventually. I think in life it’s very important to follow your heart and listen to what it has to say. What feels right is generally the correct thing to do, and for me, writing does feel right, it feels like the thing I was born to do, and so I will keep following my heart, the trail of happiness, to wherever it may lead me.

 

The Reality Of Depression

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Well. The depression has returned. It came back three days ago, and I have a feeling the beast will be staying for a long while this time, biding its time, sitting on my chest like an unwelcome dog. I haven’t slept in three days, and feel like hell. Even the slightest, tiniest of tasks, like sipping a bit of water from a cup, or relieving my bladder, takes a monumental effort; I’ve got heart palpitations from anxiety, and nausea and dizziness to boot. Nothing I write is the least bit good, and my writing dreams are dust. When I get like this, I see nothing—no future, no past, no present, just endless pain and misery, for eternity.

There’s no hope. Granted, I’m not suicidal yet, I don’t have any plans to kill myself, but it is likely I’ll be hospitalised before the week is out if my mood keeps up. I’m just sick and tired of everything. Sick and tired of writing and never getting anywhere with it. Of staying home, and feeling like I have no future, no career, no hopes or dreams, nothing to look forward to or be happy about. Everything is colourless and dull; there’s nothing more depressing than the world outside, with its cars trundling down the streets, the empty pavements, the grey leaden sky, the people on the buses and trains, living in their own separate houses. Every word I write is a barbed thorn, digging into my flesh. Depression isn’t anything to laugh at; it’s black, it’s dark and all-consuming. It is the lack of hope itself, the world become a pencil-drawing instead of a rich, colourful canvas. I can’t remember the last time I was truly happy.

When I get particularly depressed, as I am now, a dark, thick self-loathing overtakes my mind and body completely. I can’t look inside mirrors, and every word I say, every movement I make, is pathetic and disgusting. I can’t stand being alive. I can’t stand my own presence. All I want to do is lie down, in a dark room, take a few hundred pills, and go to sleep forever, so I will no longer have to bear reality and all its sharp edges. I want to step out of my body, shed it like a butterfly does it chrysalis, and flutter away on angels’ wings to heaven, to somewhere pleasant, without pain or fear or despair. When I get depressed, I wish I had never been born.

I really feel quite ill. The only purpose of this post is to shed some light on the reality of depression. I feel sick and nauseous, deep down to my very core; the lymph nodes at my neck are all tender and swollen, and I can’t breathe, as if there’s a pillow clamped to my chest. I have a pretty good idea for a book, but not the writing skills to bring it to execution, and I cannot help but feel that my dream of becoming a writer is out of reach for good. When I get depressed, everything is irritating and unbearable; the light of the sun, my family’s attempts to speak to me; all books and films become boring and banal. .

Whenever I get depressed, I wonder how it is that everyone else can remain so happy and calm, and go about their days with such faith and motivation. Why is it that only some people have demons? What makes one person more susceptible to the blues than someone else? It doesn’t make any sense, and I am full of jealousy towards those who live their lives happily, untroubled and carefree, because it seems to be a state I can never attain.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this no-sleeping business up. Twice, I have run through my head suicidal methods—there’s pills I’ve been taking for depression, paracetamol in the drawers in the kitchen, which I can overdose on, and close to where I live a bridge that overlooks a reservoir of water which I can jump off from if I need to. It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t depressed why I would want to take such a drastic step. I’m still afraid of doing it so far, but some part of me wants to do it, desperately, because I can’t stand being myself, being conscious and existing, for a moment longer. Life has become unbearable; it’s as though someone has crammed a lump of something disgusting into my mouth, and I want to spit it out—by which I mean, kill myself. I do sincerely wish I had never been born. I wish I could return to a better place, to my childhood, when everything was fun and exciting. I’m lost in life, and I don’t know who I am, or where I am going; I want to find satisfaction, contentment, happiness, but all these things seem as out of reach as the sun, and instead of smiling all I feel like doing is throwing up.

 

Depression Part 2: Musings About Existence

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It’s no secret that INFPs are the type most prone to suicide. I’m not trying to attribute suicide ideation to only a particular set of personality factors or state that people of other personalities never feel inclined to end their own lives. It’s just more…common among this particular personality type. My personality type.  

Now, I don’t feel suicidal. I don’t think I have ever truly felt suicidal because the thought of terminating my own life is just too frightening. We all want to live, every bit of living matter of this earth, from humans down to wriggling amoebas.

But I have felt times when I just wished I could stop existing. Just, phase out of this world. It would be like I never existed. Never conceived.

And I enter into these melancholy moods, where I’m too scared of pain and oblivion when conscious of the fact that I’m ending my life and simply want a great big Nothingness to settle over the places and spots in the Universe where my life has touched, not because my life is terrible.

On the surface, it isn’t. Hey, maybe some people would think I have it tough. Dire financial straits. Daughter of a stressed single mother. No career plan in sight. Sickened by society. Worries. Anxiety, in its multifarious forms. But none of those physical, or should I say sublunary difficulties, truly send me into a spiral of despair.

It’s thinking that makes me depressed and not want to exist. To be specific, over-thinking. And, plot twist: I’m still depressed. I rather think of it as a natural reaction to reality for me. Unless I can blur the edges with drugs or alcohol (and I don’t do that because I’m not that kind of person and maybe it’s because some part of me still wants to live and be healthy and hopes for a better future), reality hurts. ‘No artist tolerates reality’ – Nietzsche. I don’t know if I deserve the appellation of ‘artist’, seeing as my output has been negligible lately, but I truly detest reality.

Reality is a bad dream. I only live when I read books or write or dream about other worlds. Better worlds. Magical worlds.

Basically, I get depressed when I contemplate the meaning of existence.

I often have trouble in believing in my writing capabilities. This results in the following thought pattern:

If you can’t create a bloody good piece of art that can live on long after you have died, there’s no point in living. You might as well die, for all the impact you are going to have on the world. You’re just a useless baggage of flesh and bone, lugging yourself around and being a parasite on Mother Earth.

Obviously, not a sunny view. Please, don’t adopt it. But, it’s just the way my thoughts are aligned at the moment.

But here’s where it gets into the dark stuff. The stuff that not many people ponder because it’s useless to do so or they can’t or they don’t feel like it.

I wonder if there is any meaning to existence if we’re all just a collation of atoms working together to create a larger system. As an atom consists of 99% empty space, we are therefore basically 99% empty space, only our brains perceive ourselves to be solid and hefty and chockfull of substance. Most of what we call me, the body, the mind, the consciousness, is EMPTY SPACE. We’re like these holograms, these ghosts, wafting among other atoms in the environment, only we see it from so great a distance that it looks like we are made up of something.

All of life is an illusion. Mouth drops. Whoosh. Down the chute of existential depression I go.

And then I start thinking about the universe and how we are basically nothing and that we’ll just return to the earth and decay and our body will break down into atoms that will return to the universe.

And how nothing really exists outside the realm of human perception. Not books. Not words. Not language. Not philosophy.

And how one day the sun will swallow us up and maybe that will be the end of humanity, if we haven’t migrated to other planets and ravaged them.

And then I come across a video that has puts into words what has discomforted me for a long time:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KeJoVeKSsyA

In it, Neil DeGrassy, a physicist, poses the question as to how life forms of a greater intelligence than us view us. Our DNA is remarkably similar to apes and yet that fractional DNA difference manifests as a tremendous gap in intelligence. If an alien life form is of different DNA to us, as it most likely will be, how much more intelligent will they be? Perhaps they view us they way we view ants skittering on the ground. Would you try to talk to an ant? It’s impossible, right? This is frightening. It’s hard to say why. I suppose it makes me feel both awestruck and sad and insignificant at the same time. If I think about it long enough, I feel like I will go mad.

So, there you. I’ve spread out some of my nihilistic thoughts before you. These are the kinds of weird, outlandish contemplations that instigate my depressive states. A by-product of existence.

I hope you don’t think I’m too crazy, after reading this, whether you are a reader of my blog or only just stumbled across it.

Sometimes, I feel crazy. Sometimes, thinking about these things for too long can make you crazy.

And, yet, I can’t seem to stop.

-Dreamerrambling