Super Spoiler: Briefly talking about the end of the Hunger Games. BuzzTF off if you haven't read it yet.
When I finished reading the last book of the Hunger Games series, all I could think about was how broken she was. Broken. So many people she loved, gone, or no longer trustworthy. Their whole society - broken. Katniss - broken. The nightmares, awful memories, and deaths of loved ones would haunt her until her dying day. Whoever is in charge of Panem will try to make her a pawn until the very end. She's broken. She's completely broken. And she will never ever be the same again.
Not to compare my life to a (fictional) war on such a massive scale, but a destruction is happening inside of me, quietly, internally. Last year, something happened to some unreachable part of me that has tainted it, and I don't know what it is, but it has broken me. I will never be the same.
A friend said something to me in distress - she said that she hopes to God that she doesn't have depression because it never goes away. I remember feeling so angry with her because I'd never felt better in my life than I did right then, and I wanted to be the one in charge of my life and my emotions. I was convinced that I would come out on the winning side. But it is a sham, a hope, a hallucination, a sick mockery of what my life really is. It is nothing.
I never thought I would ever fully understand what it was like to be depressed. It's something I never talk about. Anyone who's been there, truly been there, will know that wrenching feeling, about not even knowing where to start when someone offers to be a confidant. Those who can open up about it - I admire them. But not me. No more. I'm done. I don't think I will have the heart to post on this blog any more, though I will try to hang on to any event that makes me happy, for as long as humanly possible. What concerns me most right now is how it will end. How will I do it? How will I commit suicide? I don't have the guts to do it. But when I think about my future, I don't see anything. There is nothing but the realisation of who I am, what life is. Nothing. Like I said. Hopefully, I can get back into the swing of pretending I am happy and that it means something, that I am not a small pawn in a scale of something far grander and far beyond my control. But this moment of reflection has helped me understand this basic fact about existence. It's horrible. I am happy for those who don't yet know it. Maybe it is the cause of chronic depression - because those who suffer it really know what's going on. Maybe. Probably.