People are always full of wisdom when it comes to debilitating illnesses they’ve never had. It’s like I always say to my neighbour who suffers from chronic emphysema;
“Have you tried Benylin?”
Obviously I don’t. I don’t even have a neighbour with emphysema, or one I’d even fucking talk to for that matter, but if I did, I wouldn’t, because I’m not a gormless cunt.
Depression is like that tiny nagging voice of doubt you sometimes hear has rented out a sound stage in your skull, and has become a permenant resident DJ.
All you can hear is “what’s the point?”, “you’re not good enough”, “you’re going to fail so no point in bothering again eh?” It’s your voice but it sounds like fucking Chris Evans is taunting you.
Your vision becomes tunnelled and you’re stranded in the dark. Literally the only thing you look forward to is sleep, and after all the sleep you could possibly need and more, you’re still more knackered than a Ryan Air relief pilot.
To someone who’s never experienced depression it’s difficult for me to explain and even more difficult for you to comprehend. It’s like Diane Abbot and basic maths.
You can’t snap out of it or pull yourself together. You can’t think positive when all of your thoughts are clouded with utter despair and desperation, and it can’t be fixed by a pretty picture of fucking trees with a nice quote on it.
So shut the fuck, keep your ill informed opinions to yourselves and leave us the fuck alone.
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