They say that a lot of art is just trying to make someone love you, and I think that this is the sole reason as to why I write. Writing has become my art, and I chew up and spit out my depression on paper in the hopes that someone will identify with me and tell me that it is ok to feel like this, that my pain is somehow beautiful. I do not write to receive sympathy from others, but even if I did, no one reads anything to feel sorry for the author; we read to feel sorry for ourselves. I am no stranger to this: I read articles and poems and stories that only serve to feed the depression that already eats away at my person. I like the way depression feels; it is safe and warm. Happiness seems to me a fleeting concept, one that has the ability to take you to such great heights but also brings with it the catastrophic possibility of falling and slamming into the concrete much harder than you can handle. Pain is addicting; there is a reason why all of us cradle ourselves in whatever suffering we have experienced. Or at least those of us that are screwed up do, and before you excuse yourself from this category, let me just say that everyone is a little screwed up. We are born as glass, no matter how much care we are handled with, each person and each experience leaves a fingerprint, a scratch, or a crack. One day, we may even shatter.
It is extremely difficult to write when you are depressed, because what the hell do I write about that isn’t depressing? My whole life is consumed by my depression, and it feels too great a deception of myself and everyone else if I were to even try to write anything “light” and “feathery.” At the same time, it almost becomes easier for me to write when I am depressed. The pain I feel is good for my art, and it allows me to be expressive and provocative and real. This is who I am, this is what I feel, and on some level, everyone who reads what I write and identifies with it feels a semblance of this too. I think that my writing is an attempt for me to reach out, to have people acknowledge what I feel and tell me that I still belong, and to speak to everyone who resonates with these words and tell them that they are not alone.
I think that I write what I do to show myself and those who read what I write that depression doesn’t have to be ugly; it doesn’t have to be the scars on my arm or tear-soaked memories of trying to hold myself together. Depression is addicting: we become addicted to our sadness because it’s what we know, and we grow comfortable in our pit of despair because it is easier than trying to be happy. Happiness is scary; it comes with expectations and with expectations come disappointments. But it is not all disappointment, so it is worth it to try to escape from the black cloud hanging over your head or at least moving out of its direct path. Writing when you are depressed forces you to read over what you have just written and truly realize exactly how you are feeling. Sometimes I don’t even know what I have just written until I go back and read it over, but each time I do I learn a little more about myself. Most importantly, I have learned that you can take the ugliest form of suffering and make it something that someone may find beautiful, and that’s all I can really ask for.
