The Feeling of Being Depressed. A Personal Reflection.

12 December 2018

After a bout with severe depression 10 years ago (and recovering), a piling up of circumstances this year have brought about its return. I am seeking counselling assistance and my medication is slowly beginning to provide me with the ability to stand back and look at my depression. Still, it is far too early for the connection to be severed, and the intimate connection with the depressed feelings are still fresh. These are my thoughts.


It lies there. Sometimes at the edge of consciousness, reaching inside of me. Other times it seems to dwell deep within, emerging outward from the inside. It is rarely seen, but it is felt. At its worst it seems to be everywhere. A dark presence. It is alien and foreign, and yet it feels so close, so intimate – a part of me. It knows me – or at least it SEEMS to know me. It PRETENDS to know me…us. But it Lies. It is Deception.

It drains hope, happiness, and love – the ability to love myself and it tries to sabotage my love of others. It pulls these feelings out of me and into an immense and ever expanding void without end. It makes them unreachable, or sometimes, frustratingly, just out of my grasp no matter how hard I reach out towards them. In turn it replaces these positive emotions with despair, hopelessness, self-loathing, and self-hate.

It take memories I have and distorts them in the most negative ways possible. It places in my mind beliefs and thoughts that are false. It dulls my mind and bends my feelings. It is a creator of the worst feelings of failure and stupidity. It is an illusionist, putting phantasms in my mind. It distorts and perverts my ability to perceive and interact with the world. I can’t be sure that what I am thinking and feeling is real or illusion. I question myself; my sanity. I wonder if anyone ever truly loved me, or cared for me.

As the dread and despair creeps up on me, around me, threatening and promising to envelop and overwhelm me, I feel there is nothing I can do. All hope seems lost.

And it never stops. It never rests. It is always there. It never gets tired. It gains strength from my ever expanding misery. It is a never ending force always pushing, pushing, pushing me to the edge of despair, and as soon as I think I’ve reached the edge, the boundary, I find that the despair and self-hatred can be pushed further, beyond what I thought was possible to experience. It is a despair that never ends. There is no other experience like it.