Don't talk about it, don't think about it. It's miserable, isn't it?
Miserable to suffer, miserable for people who aren't blighted with it to have to hear about. So you shut up, swallow it down, try not to taint other people with your....filth.
Everyone around you is doing great - they're sparkly, happy, full of life - which is a stark contrast to the dry, hollowed-out husk of a person you feel you are right now.
And you're just.....hanging onto the cliff by your bloodied broken fingernails and wondering 'Would it be easier to let go? Should I just let it engulf me? Would oblivion be peace?'
All around you people seem to be screaming with their normality, making you feel smaller, more lacking, more wrong, so you isolate yourself although you crave knowing someone gives a flying shit. You can't take part in the chattering masses, tempting as it is because something inside tells you you're not worthy of them, that they don't give a shit about you. So you retreat. People think you're aloof. The very reason you pull away makes others draw back so you're twice as far away as you were before. Can you ever go back? Do you even want to go back? What's the point.
DEPRESSION.
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