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Sam

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Depression is a dirty liar.  Depression likes to tell me awful things and then make me believe them.  It tells me lies and then proves them to me, such that I can’t help but accept them as fact.  Depression tells me I don’t matter, that I’m stupid, that I’m bad, that no one loves me, that even though I have a family that loves me I’m alone and always will be.  It tells me that I, and everyone around me, would be better off if I were gone.  It tells me that my wife should leave me for her own good, so that she can find someone else.  Another man that would make a better friend, lover, husband, and father.  Depression tells me that my daughter would be better off without me.  That I’m going to screw her up and that she’ll learn to (rightfully) resent and hate me.

These are lies of course, but they are cunning and difficult to discount.  They creep into the mind like a slowly mounting fog.  Once it’s settled in, everyone and everything I experience is seen through the grimy lens of depression, through the dark fog.  It warps my interpretation and twists the words and actions of those around me into something malevolent and uncaring.

Depression makes me question myself and whether I deserve to live.  It makes me question why anyone would love me, and makes me wonder when they will realize how much better off they will be when I’m gone.

I must always remind myself that these are all lies.  Eternal vigilance is required, but maintaining vigilance can be like holding onto smoke.  Nevertheless, what choice do I have?

Fuck depression.

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