Depression is the Most Boring Form of Being Alive
Not how I feel right now—just something I wanted to put into words.
There is nothing fancy going on in my head when this happens.
Depression is the most boring form of being alive.
It is full of nothingness.
It’s not just that I’m having trouble doing things—
it’s that nothing feels interesting or alive.
It’s not just that I’m thinking of dying,
it’s that I think I’m already dead.
Everything is slightly misaligned,
like the world is a fraction off-center.
There’s this big empty void that somehow fills you up.
I thought everyone experienced depression the way that I did.
I was wrong.
Every person I’ve spoken to tells me a different story.
I don’t believe in “depression” anymore.
I believe in depressions.
What does yours look like?
We might have things in common, you and me.
But my pain and your pain can’t be measured against each other.
Sadness is relative. So is exhaustion.
For me, the word is numbness.
It’s like I’m not even alive.
Sometimes I can’t eat—
not even to keep myself alive.
Sometimes I don’t drink water.
I just lie in bed.
Eyes closed.
Somewhere between sleep and awake—
a place that doesn’t really feel like living.
That’s where I go.
I don’t live in the world.
I step outside it.
I don’t really think.
I don’t feel.
I can’t even cry.
Empty is another word I would use.
It happens all of a sudden.
There’s usually no build-up.
I will wake up one morning
and not want to wake up.
Most of my days are filled with guilt.
Am I just lazy?
Why do I hate everything, even breathing?
What’s wrong with me?
I haven’t left the house in days.
Or is it weeks?
I haven’t smelled fresh air in so long.
(That is, if you even have that luxury.)
If you have to go out into the world,
it feels separate from you.
You are a complete outsider.
You don’t talk.
You don’t even listen.
People say things and it is as if
they are speaking in tongues,
making less sense than your own thoughts.
The things that used to bring you joy,
the playfulness of life,
are now tasteless.
You hate your life.
You even hate your memories.
But most of all, you hate yourself.
Why am I like this?
I don’t care about anything.
Nothing matters.
Least of all—
I don’t matter.
Does everyone know?
Can they see the blankness in my eyes?
Can they tell
I don’t have opinions anymore?
People around me are laughing,
but I can’t hear them through the fog in my mind.
There are trees outside and the sun is bright,
but I don’t look at it,
as if it might interfere with my blankness.
I am alone.
I don’t even like myself enough
to spend this much time in my own head.
But I won’t let anyone else in.
I don’t want them to see what’s inside here.
I don’t want them to know.
The secret I’m carrying
is that life is actually no good.
My life, in particular.
I forgot how to smile.
Laughing feels so dishonest.
I’m only living because I’m alive
and was given no choice in the matter.
Yes, I have thought of not living, of dying—
but it just seems like another place
where I would feel this way.
You can’t escape yourself
even if you try to escape the world.
It’s me I’m trying to get rid of.
And maybe that’s the part no one talks about.
That it’s not the world that disappears—
it’s you.
Piece by piece.
Thought by thought.
Until one day you’re still here, technically alive,
but there’s no one home to experience it.
Maybe it doesn’t look like this for you.
Maybe your version is louder,
or sharper,
or easier to hide.
But if there’s a part of you that recognizes this—
even a little—
then you know what I mean.
nina
A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/ or wherever you get your podcasts.
Imagine two loud, dramatic, hilarious Indian women explaining to a white man what it's like to grow up and live in America. Join us for laughter, deep thoughts, and witty banter about life, love and culture. We tell it like it is, with honest, bold and funny stories, discussions and arguments. We explore boundaries and challenge norms. Join us for a good talk.
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