“I got some issues that nobody can see and all of these emotions are pouring out of me”
These are the lines that I reflect on every day, the lines that constantly run through my head. The internal issues, the ones that rot my brain from the inside. Worse than any physical pain or immense suffering, the all consuming void of depression is by far the hardest thing I’ve had to deal with at this point of my life. It was only a few months ago that I genuinely contemplated committing suicide in order to end the negative thoughts ingrained in my consciousness. The depression that had spent years building up without me being fully aware of its presence had reached the breaking point, and without the knowledge of anyone but myself had transformed into this plague, this destructive force upon my being. I filtered out my worst thoughts into writing, frequently on the verge of suicide and used the positive responses to keep myself going. I started developing a reliance on the love shown by all these people I had never met and who wouldn’t really notice or care that I was gone.
I imagined the world without me, what life would be like for all the friends I’d made without me in them and failed to see that my life had meaning. At my lowest point, I watched Bo Burnham’s Make Happy again and again, constantly battering the points made in the last 15 minutes into my soul, looking for some form of healing. I felt like I couldn’t tell anyone, that telling people in my real life would make my pain real. I couldn’t deal with the inevitable tears of my mother and her almost certainly blaming herself for my depression. I had fears about telling my father for reasons to this day, i still don’t quite understand. And I couldn’t even consider in my dysfunctional state, going to see a therapist. That would have taken an inner strength and a desire to live, something that I didn’t have.
The only thing that I could possibly do was write, to smash my fingers down onto the keyboard of my laptop, until there was something there that represented everything I was feeling. I’m aware that myself in the past made the wrong decision and if a situation like this arises again, I would without a doubt seek professional help. Me a few months ago was too afraid and awkward to admit that I had something wrong with me. That there was something out of my control that was destroying me. I blamed myself for it, that I was the reason for my own suffering. I hit myself frequently, smacked my head off of walls, beat my fists against my desk until they were bloody and blue.
To everyone who wasn’t aware of my Twitter account, I was the normal Logan. I did what I always did. Watched movies all the time, played video games, went on long rambles about miscellaneous subjects. To the outside world, there was nothing wrong with me. I looked fine, apart from my hands there was no evidence to suggest that I was suffering, that i could have ended it all at any point. Months have passed since I thought like that every day. I survived my own mind, this time. I got a girlfriend who I love with all my heart, I gained even more friends, I got an article published on a professional website. i am happy most of the time now. I have went weeks without contemplating death. Sometimes there is the occasional lapse but I can recover quickly and these incidents are few and far between.
But every time i hear those words, the tears come flowing from my eyes. Every time I watch Make Happy, I cry. Every time I read something about someone opening up about their depression, I cry. And I think about why I made it, why I’m standing here today. It was because i was open to someone, even though they weren’t in my real life. I shared parts of me that were so personal that I could barely accept them as a part of myself. i openly discussed my suicidal thoughts and depression on Twitter and talked to friends who had went through similar experiences. I had long conversations with people who gave me motivation, who made my life feel important. No one cured me, fuck I’m not cured. I’m still depressed, genuinely fucking depressed some days and at points, unable to leave my bed or motivate myself to do anything. But I’m here alive and working through my demons not by ignoring but by confessing. I’m happier than I've ever been and I’m in love with someone, but things could have went the other way. I could have died but I didn’t.
Writing this is my closure to the events of a few months ago, the final entry in these personal essays focused on death. To make myself feel that it was OK to be depressed, that it didn’t make me a worse person or weak. I didn’t become less of a man by going through this. If you’re reading this and you’re suicidal or depressed, i want you to know that your life matters, That you are important, that you are meaningful and that the world would be a worse place without you. That I’m here for anyone who needs my help and I will do whatever i can to put a smile on your face or to offer support. You are not alone, you are not weak, you are not broken and this is not your fault. And you matter, you matter, you matter.
