I am writing this from a place of despair

Today I sat at my desk crying because I had the most overwhelming urge in that moment that I wanted (want) to die.

For as long as I can remember I have suffered from depression.

Here’s a textual representation of what depression looks like: I am worthless, I am ugly, I am nothing. Someone could do this better (I’m an organ donor). I’m not contributing. I have no friends and nobody likes me. I am not good enough. I am not cool enough. I am not thin enough. Not pretty enough. Not wanted enough. Not important enough. Never enough. Not a part of anything. What a waste of space; loner, loser. I wish I was dead. I am too weak to get by in this world. I am too sensitive. I am hideous, what a disgrace. I don’t deserve life. I should die. I wish I was dead. I am disgusting. I hate myself. No wonder no-one calls me – they know I am not worth knowing, that I am not connected enough and of no social value.

(If you’re exhausted halfway through the above, you should be. It’s totally depleting – I should know, I carry that around all day, on a loop).

Depression is a disease, for sure. But it’s particularly venomous because of its invisibility (you are alone with your thoughts) and the ease with which it is so casually dismissed. This has never been more true in a culture which actively celebrates the glossy images of a rehearsed, performed and curated life (social media) in which any glimpse behind-the-scenes, aka vulnerability is akin to indecent exposure.

I suffer in silence. Totally and utterly alone.