You know what truly bugs? When someone asks you if you’re okay, when they know damned well that you’re not. “How are you?” “How are things?” “You feel okay?” No I do not fucking feel okay, and the fact that I’m conscious and have my eyes open doesn’t give you the space to comment on whether or not I look more emotionally stable.

I really, really hate it when people who aren’t depressed assume they have some kind of understanding of severe depression. Assume that they can crank up the volume and that will cheer you up, and then you’ll be better. You just will. And the next morning, after your breakdown, everything will be happy and covered in maple syrup because the sun is shining and glitter is raining down from the mother fucking sky.

Pass the hours, or minutes or whatever, and stay occupied so that nothing slips and everything doesn’t get all fucked up again. And then the second comes when the record skips and everyone wonders what happened.

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