When I moved away from home at the end of 2015, I turned to the book world in earnest. After all, I was living in a new place away from everything and everyone I had ever known. So a hundred fictional worlds became my haven. Going through the school year, I wasn’t bothered at all by my new and intense loneliness- because I had my books to turn to. Looking back at myself, I was only delaying the inevitable.
Listen- I was already sad. I had endured years of self-harm, suddenly moving to another country, moving back to my home and then moving away once more. It had obviously rattled something inside me. But this time instead of wearing my frustration on my sleeve, I chose to put on an indifferent front in hopes of riding through college and the new move. It was like my sadness was lurking behind my hardback novels, waiting for me to get bored of my new home to finally pounce on me. And that is exactly what happened.
Books were my only hobby, the only thing I was “good” at, per se. But beginning in 2017, I developed an unusual aversion to reading. I tried to pick up a book, but the words seemed so pointless, the stories foolish and quite simply, stupid. After that realization, it seemed like everything that I was holding back was rushing towards me, no punches held. And I have never felt as hopeless and utterly sad as I do now.
The upside to this pathetic tale? I finally mustered the courage to seek professional help for my depression. So far, it’s going really, really good. I’m still sad, I still sometimes wish that I wouldn’t wake up, wish that I was dead more often than not. But on good days I can see the other side of this sadness. And on those days I listen to loud music and smile and hope for more.