Depression tells you that that one’s too young — he can’t possibly want what you want out of a relationship, so don’t even ask — and that other one, he’s too straight-laced — he’d bolt at the first sign of the real you.
And do you really want him anyway?
Depression says you’re too tired to walk the dogs, it’s too cold to walk the dogs. Then you’re an asshole for not walking the dogs.
God, you’re so fucking lazy.
Depression tells you that that thing you posted on your friend’s Facebook wall? She didn’t realize you were joking and now she thinks you’re mean. And it won’t stop saying it.
You’re mean.
Everyone thinks you’re mean.
Depression whispers that it won’t work out. It’ll never work out.
Depression says there’s something wrong with you. Like, fundamentally wrong with you. That’s why shit is so messed up.
It’s your fault. You caused it.
And depression? Depression is an excellent liar.
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I’m fine. I’ll be fine. It’s just, for the last couple weeks, I’ve been lied to a lot.
Depression is a big fat mother fucking lying piece of shit bully.
Sending love to combat the lies.
lied to my whole lif. i’m with you, babe. and just think, next time you are lied to, say, hey, margo and dr d are coming to see ME! so fuck off, you lying scum.
i feel you. fucking exhausting to constantly remind myself that they are, in fact, lies – worth it, but it makes me so tired! take a nap and then keep fighting.
Come over for kittens, hugs and soup/tea/cocoa whenever you want. You’re not mean, you speak your damn mind and it’s hilarious and poignant and straight to the point and whatever else you want it to be. See if the image of my dad saying poignant like “poig-nant!” doesn’t give you a smile.