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You've made me very sick and I don't know what I can do. You came into my life uninvited and decided to destroy me.
I don't quite know how to explain you, it's like having someone beside me all the time, watching everything I'm doing, criticizing me and constantly putting me down. There's no one there of course, you're not something I can see and I guess that's probably one of the worst things about you, trying to explain to someone something that isn't there. I start to question if you're real or if you're something that I'm just making up. The answer is that you're both. You appeared in my head one day and decided to stay. Sometimes you go away and I am happy again but then you come back and stay a little longer and then a little longer still. It's hard to think that you're not real when you're there living inside me, infecting me.
I try to think of you as some kind of emotional cancer flying around in the air looking for people who are maybe a little weaker then others and that's quite hard for me to say because I never really thought of myself as weak. Perhaps you just picked me at random and made me weak, forced me to become weak. I know that you feed off my unhappiness, every time someone lets me down, rips me off, criticizes me or treats me in a way that I wouldn't treat them. You ate at me until gradually you became too big to go away and that's when I really started getting depressed.
The big D, that's what people call you. Your real name isn't used, I guess because they think it deflates some of your power but I don't think it does. I think the weather people have finally got something right when they say that a large depression is on it's way over, 'put the kettle on because they think it'll settle in for a few days', a few months, a lifetime.
By any name, shape or form you're still the same. People use the term so regularly, you boyfriend goes away 'I'm depressed'. Your grandmother dies, 'I'm depressed' and while these are for the most very, very genuine reasons to get down in a lot of cases the person can get over the feelings of being depressed and can move on, back on the up. The feelings of depression I get are different altogether. It's like being on a constant downer and like I say it's almost impossible to explain. There seems to be no real reason for why I get so depressed and that makes me feel worse. I try really hard to be nice to people, friendly, helpful and trusting. This probably leaves me more open and susceptible to the bad people whose one aim is gain something from me, money mostly but there are people who don't like my friendly nature and to bring me down seems to bring them up, they take pleasure in other peoples misery. There's a Japanese word for that but I can't remember what it is. Anyway I know these people exist but I act in the friendly trusting way to every new person because if they are decent and nice, I don't want to be mean or nasty to them in case they begin to feel the same way I do. So I continue doing what I do and everyone else keeps doing what they do and I guess you'll keep doing what you do.
People say 'cheer up' or 'you'll' get over it', 'don't get so down on yourself'. You're not 'just a stage', you're not something I can just get over. You're an afflicting disease that gradually consumed my mind. You stole my confidence, my sense of worth and most importantly my sense of purpose in this life. I begin to appreciate time away from other people and get sick of hearing other peoples problems, I find myself not caring, you're a very selfish illness. One of the only things that makes me happy is not showing up to places where I know people will miss me. I know I'm not there to see their smiles disappear but it makes me feel better all the same, to hurt those who are close to me simply because they don't know what I'm going through.
Some days I just hate waking up. Every time I open my eyes I feel just a little more disappointed that I'm still here. I hate being with my friends, my family and because of this, I hate myself. Not only do you insist on harming me now but I can't remember what I was like before you came along, you have robbed me of who I am and who I used to be.
I think about killing you regularly.
Dear disease, I hate what you've done, you've taken my life away from me.
He read the note over and over again trying to understand it. He didn't know if it was a plea for help or an attempt to explain what was happening, if he could have done more or if the decision in some sad way had been a final desperate act to stop the hurting. He knew one thing for sure, he missed his son terribly, they all did.
I may be stupid but at least I'm not handsome.