A/N
Just when I thought things could not get worse, they did. This is my rage against what's trying to break me down and at large has succeeded over the course of my lifetime and I will not let it without at least getting word out. I know I'm not the only one who hears that same rant on repeat and everyone needs to know it's a lie!
Don't buy the idea of a beautifully suffering dark angel. Sorry, but it has to be said; bodily functions don't stop just because you're depressed. Your will to deal with them might, and trust me, there is no beautiful depression. Sometimes they last for days, sometimes for months, sometimes even for years. I've done all those time penalties. They're never pretty.
Literally just hitting back with anything I find, Blake is my go-to muse and I'm… feeling raw and embarrassed and yet better after writing this piece of crap. Normally never would have posted anything this skinless but I felt like I had to. Might delete it later though, as this is a one-sitting blurt-out of what it feels like.
Title "True Depression" plays at what it's really like, regardless of the amount of time. To say you're "depressed" because you don't feel like doing something is misleading. And yes, I've done that myself too, so no need to preach linguistics to the linguist.
There is no such thing as a beautiful depression. The myth of a pale, dark-clad beauty carrying sorrow deeply within her alabaster-white ample chest while holding a posture like a statue of virtue and poetic serenity, is just that - a myth.
True depression smells.
It smells of unwashed hair and body, of dirty clothes and leftover food on plates that doesn't make it to the sink, much less into the dishwasher. It smells of the mould growing in wet towels or dirty clothes thrown at the floor. It smells of the tears and snot that leaks out of a human in the depths of their despair, and the sour sweat their bodies bathes in during the throes of the nightmares.
True depression is not clean and pure.
It is layers of dust covering the living space because there is no strength to clean. It's remnants of half-eaten meals caked into plates and silverware, staining rugs, couch fabrics and table cloths. It is sand, dirt and dry leaves dragged in from the less and less frequent trips outside of the home. It is teeth that rarely gets brushed, hair that is greasy from lack of washing, it is fingernails with a line of dirt. Sometimes there are bugs, swarming creatures pleased to see what we leave for them to feast on. True depression is piles of dirty dishes and heaps of dirty clothes, it's dirty windows behind closed curtains, and greasy mirrors and cobwebs in the corners. It is overflowing trashcans and long-forgotten period stains on the bed sheets.
True depression is not a higher state of a creative mind.
There simply is nothing stellar about creating texts, paintings or sculptures while not putting on some deodorant because the mind is too exhausted to care about its own very living space - the body. Creative and intelligent people are generally more susceptible to depression, but only because they are the canaries in the mines.
You know, miners used to keep canaries because when the oxygen levels dropped, the birds died first and gave the humans a chance to escape before the levels dropped to a lethal level for them. The same way, sensitive people are usually the first to bend at unhealthy environments - physical, mental or emotional - but they are not the last. They are only the canaries in the mines.
Depression is not beautiful. It is a disgusting condition, a downright sneer thrown straight into the face of the sensitive people who generally are those who really mind their environment the most, and needs beauty, cleanliness and serenity to feel good. It is not something to envy, not something that "brings out the artist" or "the genius" in anyone. Depression is a shit-smelling demon and it makes you not care what you smell like. It is nothing anyone strives for or invites. It invades. And sometimes it wins. Because its voice sounds so true.
You're useless. Nobody loves you. Nobody cares if you live or die. You'll never amount to anything. You fail at everything.
The voice which isn't a voice but rather a feeling, a twisted backbeat just a notch below your very heartbeat, and it goes on, and on, and on. It never stops. If you try to contradict it by something like "but he likes me," it changes its tune to an almost apologetic "yes, so he says, but remember how he looked at you today", or "sure, but everyone knows he's a weirdo so what good does that do?" or "but he's family, so he kind of has to say it doesn't he?"
Endlessly ranting. Endlessly bringing up stuff from over a decade ago, a word you mispronounced or when you tripped getting out of a car and a bunch of teenagers burst out laughing, or even something that's actually valid to feel bad about; an argument you had or calling someone a name they probably didn't deserve. Oh, that voice is there to remind you how useless you are and how nobody cares about you.
But apart from suggesting different things to make matters worse, by hurting yourself or offering relief that ends up having the same effects… what does that voice really offer? Does it ever present actual facts or realistic ways of dealing with the situation? Or is it the Donald Trump of the mind, playing tunes on the high-strung and stringing the others higher, just for its own amusement?
If the brain is a computer, the most sophisticated in the universe perhaps, then isn't this voice just a computer virus, and not even a very sophisticated one at that? It spews out the same thing over and over, but does it ever win by logic, or just because it wears down its host? And if it wears down its host, is there really nothing a good, strong network can do against it? There should be, shouldn't it?
"Alex," Spencer Reid said and took the glass from her. "You've had enough and you need to sleep."
"Did you listen?"
"To every word. But you're not stuck ten years ago, you're here now. And I know, trust me."
He paused for a moment.
"Apart from that thing with the period-stained sheets."
Alex winced.
"Yeah. You didn't need to know that part."
Spencer sighed.
"I think I did. I think everyone does. That voice speaks to all of us, maybe some people hear it easier than others, or easier in some situations, but it's always there. And I think you're right. It's like a virus."
"Like a radio station, just sending out the same messages constantly. It's not aimed at anyone in particular. It's like horoscopes. Generalised so to make sure 99 % feel included. And those who don't…"
"…simply don't acknowledge it at all. It's just white noise to them."
"What can be done about it?" Alex asked. "I'm so fed up. I still keep hearing it whenever things go wrong or I feel a little tired or put off. It's like once you've heard the words, they can emerge from that white noise at any time, and it's so draining."
"We can tell on it. I don't think we can fight it alone, but it loses hold of us when we talk about it. I don't mean we should feed it more power by talking about how down we feel, but tell. 'It's playing that tape again'. Because we've got a lot more dire things to worry about in this world than what a standard message sent out on a negative mental frequency wants to imprint into our heads."
Alex snorted.
"That's damn true." She leaned back. "There's another thing, too."
"What's that?"
"True depression doesn't last. Those images like to tell us it does, but it doesn't. Darkness can never chase away light. Darkness can only claim what is not lit. And that's not really a valid claim at all, is it?"
"I love how you get more and more eloquent yet less coherent the closer to sleep you get."
"Maybe I'm just getting closer to my core conscience."
"Maybe so. But if you need to sleep, just go on. I'll be here."
"What if you go to sleep as well?"
"Then I'll be there in your dreams."
"Ugh, too mushy and too white-knightish."
"Sleep, Alex."
She already was.