/lit/ - Literature

>>10803932
>Describe a depressive episode
At first it’s a black fog of frustration and disorder, occasionally pierced by pangs of extreme self-disgust. You’re itchy, you’re confused, you’re distracted, you’re bored. You repeat the same tired behaviors your meat forever demands from you—feed, shower, shit, jerk off, entertainment. Your head is rotting away and everybody smells it. You smell it. It makes you sick. You hate yourself, virulently hate yourself, and want so desperately for the thoughts to stop. Maybe you even begin to consider methods, tools. How much does a shotgun cost? How does one actually go about obtaining a gun permit? You’ve read about people who misfire and fuck up the kill, so how do you make sure you do it right? Where and when would you do it, and who would discover the body? Somebody has to.

But it’s only another fantasy, and to struggle towards it is as useless as every other hurt you’ve endured up until now. Your cowardice wins out, like it always does, and gradually you enter the next and quieter stage. Your failing will ebbs away to oblivion. Calmly you extinguish your hopes (even of death), calmly you extinguish your self and its unfulfilled ambitions, vaguely glad to be putting these frivolities behind you. There is nothing to regret because there is nothing to want. There is no hot shame because there are no expectations for yourself. There is nothing to fear because Hell has already arrived. You are an insentient fleck of organic matter who exists to suffer, consume, and die. The fog doesn’t clear, but it grows so dense you are not even sure it’s there, and the itching stops. You are still. A kind of holy consciousness sweeps over you. You’re freed from life, freed from hope, your future, your past. You only are. One day you will not. One day soon, probably sooner than you expect.

You smile.