Recently giving up on writing was one of these times. Reading works of outlandishly great writing left me feeling rather short-staffed in my capabilities. So I gave up. It's easy to give up. How exciting is blogging about depression anyway!? A melancholy boy that just writes about how this "disease" has been running havoc in his life.
Another thing to give up, depression. I feel/felt that it has become an easy scapegoat for falling short in life ambitions or objectives. Escaping the challenges life throws my way is really easy when I can just point my finger at the elephant in the room and scream "depression did it!" I mean, you can't disprove it right? It's a big mean demon that is as omnipresent as it is invincible.
I constantly even wonder if I am mentally ill or if I'm just a lazy sack of shit that's blaming the easy target. There isn't an easy answer to any of this. It's sort of like the crazy man wondering if he's crazy. Then again, by who's standards are we measuring crazy? By who's definition of depression?
I blame this feeling, this constant feeling of inadequacy, idiocy, weakness because it's easy to do so. The more challenging slope I could climb would be that of owning up to my actions as a grown-ass man and accepting what fate I have wrought. I have all the mental faculties to overcome anything in my way, right? All men do. Time and time again throughout history we've heard tales and witnessed feats of astounding strength solely brought on upon by the human psyche. The fleshy piece of gray goop in our skulls is capable of actions far beyond measure. Yet, here I sit wallowing in self-doubt.
I see the signs, but still act the way I do.
I'm throwing a pity party for one. You can come if you want, but the punch is really salty and some asshole put Depeche Mode on repeat.
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