Image Credit - Gemma Correll
It awakens the tiny, but devastatingly present, voice inside of you, which means that there is only 48 hours between deciding to consciously eat well, and feeling guilty for every gram of fat which passes your lips.
it makes you feel guilty for things you didn’t do. Things which you imagined, in a sort of daydream, except you were imagining the worst possible scenario. Things which you didn’t want to do. Things which depression itself made seem so, so logical.
If your friend is having a bad day too, it makes you think that just because they’re not communicating with you in exactly the way that they normally would, they like you less. Like you’ve done something wrong in the last 48 hours.
It makes you deliberately not do the things which will make you feel better because if you don’t try to do them, you can’t fail at doing them.
It stops you replying to text messages, because there’s no way anyone could ever actually care about you enough to hear from you. Then two weeks later, it makes you feel guilty for the terrible friend that you have been while people were trying to love you.
It makes you feel like unless you can be the best friend to everyone, you might as well not be a friend at all.
You’re never sad enough, or anxious enough, or better enough. You’re never trying hard enough. You’re never sure enough that you’re not going to end up crying irrationally for a whole night and you’re never close enough to having that meltdown to actually be 100% sure that depression is the right word. You’re never unwell enough, or symptomatic enough to actually believe it.
It makes you think that there’s really no point taking your makeup off or doing your sit ups because you’re never going to be pretty anyway, so you might as well not bother.
Perhaps the most telling part, is that it stops you from writing about it in the first person, because nobody wants to here about me, or I, but writing a whole ‘relatable' list in the third person is exactly what the internet wants, right?