This may all seem stupid at first but hear me out; I really can’t believe that I’m writing this thing.
I have to admit that I always hated reading people’s ‘recovery stories’. Instead of filling me with happiness and hope and all those fuzzy great feelings, they usually left me feeling even more empty and worthless than before, sending me right into great, dark pit with no emergency ladder to climb up again.
I guess that’s because when I was really depressed (I mean the worst wave, which hit me, more or less, exactly a year ago) the problem wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t feel anything. It was this awareness that I totally don’t care, that I’m not in any way scared of this numbness that laid right in the core of everything. I would read a story or two about people fighting their illnesses and overcoming all those things that kept them from normal life and I could just think: ‘Why?’
Why bother? Why would I even try to do this, when I don’t even see a point? When I can’t even imagine myself doing this?