I am not usually the type to show my friends, the people I’m around, how bad my depression is. There is only one person I am open to about it, he is a good friend, but I have not talked with him a lot lately. It is because it is hard to find the motivation to pick up my hands to type. I slept for 17 hours today just because I didn’t want to get up and be alive. The joy of life has become nothing but hours that have extended to feel like days. And it is all my fault.
I believed when they told me I was the most important, that they’d never let me go, that they’d give up their habits for me. I believed in that. And now the price I pay is to be bogged down by thoughts of nothing but how much I want to die.