2:59 a.m. | 2012-06-25
when you come undone i cover it up

one of my friends was feeling suicidal earlier, and her girlfriend/sort of girlfriend/i can't keep up with their shit was being a real asshole about it, which doubled my stress level when trying to talk her down. she's younger than me by a few years so i tried to pull the whole "i'm so wise because i was in the exact same place when i was your age and it will all get better magically and i just know this because of my wiseness!" act, and i think i succeeded to an extent, enough to calm her down and convince her to call her therapist and not go through with it.

and now i'm in a fucking terrible mood because there's nothing like talking down a suicidal person to bring your hard-earned state of ignorance to your own damn sadness crashing down. i can throw all kinds of empty-but-beautifully-delivered words at her about how it's just a matter of finding the right meds and therapy to balance it out and how she's way too young to know life has nothing to offer her yet and how there are people out there better than the girlfriend that seriously told her "do whatever", but what the hell do i know? some people are just wired for perpetual sadness. what if she never does find that right cocktail of meds, what if she always feels this way, isn't it selfish of us to ask her to stick around?

and me, what if going to st augustine in two months doesn't change anything, and i don't find any kindred spirits or inspirations or reasons to not hate myself? and even worse, what if i do and nothing's different? i'd like to think my depression is circumstantial because let's be honest, my circumstances are pathetic, but i'll be well and truly fucked if i find better circumstances and still feel this way. maybe that's why i never actively try. i can't psychoanalyze myself anymore. this decade of melodramatic blogging has made me an unreliable narrator even to myself.