I have no idea how to be happy. Not really, truly happy. Not the kind of happy which endures. I have happy moments. And in those moments I feel that the rest of life’s rubbish is worth it for those few moments of calm contentment. But is it really? Should life be like this? Is it normal to be miserable or anxious the majority of the time, with only sporadic and brief respite?
The blackness of anxiety and depression is pervasive and persistent. It eats into everything like a virus, until there is nothing left uninfected, no aspect of life left free. It seeps into the very fibre of who you are and erodes everything until you’re a stranger to yourself, nothing more than a puppet, a host for this parasite to control. It gets beneath your defenses- for who can fight their own mind? Who would suspect that it is their own brain causing this agony? And in order to destroy the disease you must train and manipulate your thoughts until they can withstand the negative.
Mental illness strikes anyone, anywhere, at any time. It comes without warning. It doesn’t care who you are. It doesn’t care how inconvenienced you will be by its presence in your life. It is ruthless.
Life with anxiety and depression is horrible. It is black. It is painful. It is hopeless. It is the silent screams inside your head. It is the fear of being discovered, the need to create a facade for onlookers. It is everything you are and it makes you nothing. Life becomes mere existence, without purpose and without justice. A game to entertain whoever is watching, a game designed to hurt, tailored to be the cruellest agony. You cry and you rage and you panic until you are breathless and ragged, and then you must open your door and face the world with a smile on your face that denies the broken mess within.