Depression is a fiction. It’s not necessarily that I’d rather it be a lie, it’s that it IS a lie objectively because the notion that life is a disaster doesn’t take into account the way you feel when someone makes you laugh or the fact that sometimes people are nice to you for no good reason other than it’s the right thing to do or that the world is full of beauty, from music to a sunset to a cat curled up in a window sill.
So I’m aware of these things and it occurs to me that, in order to STAY depressed, I have to willfully ignore them. It’s like you have to deny yourself the very real and tangible things in your life that make you happy every day. Really, being depressed is not only a bad way to live, it’s just INACCURATE and I don’t have the energy to keep lying to myself and pretending things are that awful.
