After eight years of blogging/writing, I’ve noticed something interesting.
Happy equals more likes and comments.
Sad equals less likes and comments.
Each time that I’ve written something depressing (which is often), I’d say to myself, damn Mer, people hate this negative fucking shit. Wouldn’t it be wiser to just pull up your happy pants and write something with a bit of sunshine in it?
But then I wouldn’t be authentic, now would I?
I wouldn’t be real, I’d be blathering on, full of fakeness just to get more likes, comments and followers.
That’s not what this new blog is about.
I do have my happy moments, as rare as they are. And I wish that they’d stick around longer, I really do. But that’s not my reality, unfortunately.
I’ve recently joined a Facebook group full of depressed and anxious people.
I decided to copy and paste my previous post there and was surprised when I received so many comments that echoed my own feelings. It reminded me of my double stint at the psych ward way back in 2015, when what I nicknamed the “depressos” found each other. Much like high school, we all recognized each other, formed a group and stayed together until it was time to go to our rooms for the night.
It’s easier to do your time when you’re part of a click.
Only other depresso’s understand what it feels like to be depressed and anxious.
Some of them even get that whole, gee whiz, I kind of wish that I wasn’t topside.
There’s a few ladies on the Facebook group (it’s private, thankfully) that concur with my dilemma of having no other choice but to stick around because of their children.
Yes, I know that it’s awful, isn’t it? I mean, I don’t even fucking like it, you know? But it’s how I feel much of the time and I’d be a liar to claim otherwise.
My therapist knows. I’ve told her. When I have my virtual visit with my new shrink next month, I’ll tell her as well. I see no point in lying to the professionals.
I get really sick of being a fighter.
One of my friends told me years back that I’ve always been so gosh darn melancholy.
I’m just a melancholy baby.
How can we change who we are?
If anyone knows, I’d be forever grateful.
Ever since my mom died, I’ve been riding this bitch ass, grief-tinged mental illness train mostly solo, so it’s been a real treat finding some kindred spirits within my little online support group. Most people in my life either avoid the hell out of me or stare like I’m a sideshow freak.
The only real outlet that I have is to write about it and now I finally have a safe place (this blog) that only a very few people even know exists, which is exactly what I needed and partly why I canned my old one.
I just have to say to those of you who followed me from my old blog, thank you. I appreciate your loyalty. You guys are so used to my ups and downs. And I know that it’s difficult to know what to say sometimes, especially when I write about my suicidal ideations.
Just know that they’ve been a part of my life since I was a young teen and I’ve mostly accepted the fact that I’ll probably be this way until I do take my last breath.