it is, in its own way, interesting, the way in which the clinical nature of clinical depression is drawn so nakedly at times when your life is stable. usually it feeds on itself such that there are always reasons why you feel the way that you do, and you can point to them; you can say to yourself "i'm unhappy because of x, i'm scared because of y" -- and these are true things but they are also excuses, in a sense, in the way that one's brain seeks excuses for the way it functions; it allows the placing of blame, and the displacement of focus on yourself.

so then, you know, you look at your life, and things are kind of okay -- you can pay your bills, you're doing well in school, you've even Met Somebody -- and your brain goes into fucking overdrive because it was not built to handle being okay; you can, at times of painful clarity, almost literally watch the self-sabotage in action. frantic attempts to create something that you can point to and say, that! that is why i am unhappy. that is a thing and it is fixable and therefore maybe someday i will not feel like this.

in this absence of that, of things that are broken and therefore fixable, when you are alone in the white noise of your own head, there is a bleakness in knowing that this is what you're left with, when you have run out of excuses for yourself. drink more, sleep more, self; claw harder at those sad little defense mechanisms you have enacted against yourself. you will still be here in the morning, little girl; little girl, you're no better than me.