Depression to me is exactly as the writer describes it: Knowing you have great potential, but living with constant fear of never reaching it.
I remember the day I first became ambitious.
It was around 4pm on an overcast Saturday. The dog was barking, mum was crying on the phone, and I’d just swallowed an entire box of Zoloft pills.
Having struggled with anxiety and depression my entire life, I’d finally decided on making a red-hot go of escape. But as the nausea began to hit, so too did something else: the realization that should I succeed, I’d be dead. Not only would I be dead, I wouldn’t be around to experience the aftermath. I wouldn’t be at the funeral, I wouldn’t see the impact it had on my family or friends or teachers or those who bullied me at school.
I’d be dead — gone. Just like that.
It wouldn’t be the victory I’d somehow imagined it, but the surest of all defeats. It might sound obvious, but I recall it being an…
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