The Book I'll Never Write

Chapter: Impending doom is a pain in the ass

Having depression is quite possibly the worst thing to have to deal with. I mean, I know it isn't, but it feels like it sometimes. Like, today, I was microwaving leftovers and I was just so tired. I took them out and they were still cold, but I didn't see the point in putting them back in the microwave so I ate cold enchiladas. I didn't sleep at all last night, so I drank an entire pot of coffee this morning and have been living on pure caffeine since then. I've done everything I can think of to get my family to take me to therapy, but frankly nothing at all is happening and it genuinely tears me apart. I don't have the energy to continuously be the happy, bubbly person that I am. I don't have the energy to care so deeply for everyone and everything without neglecting myself. I put so much of myself into other people that I'm slowly fading away into an empty semblance of a past self. I expend so much energy caring that I slowly kill myself. Writing is one of the few things that I can do to sort of ground myself but even still it's temporary and ultimately futile. It is a largely disastrous circumstance, and I don't know if I'll be able to make it out alive.