A lot of people I come across in my day to day life seem to think that depression is just crying a lot. And while that’s not even partially true, these days I do find myself crying a lot.
I cry because I feel sad and then I cry because I feel guilty for feeling sad.
I cry because I’m too tired to do my own dishes.
I cry because I’m too exhausted to go to class, and then I cry because I’m in the very small percentage of people whose parents can afford to pay for their education and I feel terribly ungrateful for wasting that
I cry because I can’t seem to get past the third page of the book I’m trying to read.
And then I cry because I don’t understand any of it.
I cry because even at my age I can’t seem to dispel myself of the myth that tragedy has the monopoly on pain. That the only issues worthy of tears are things like caskets and tumours and lives lost, as opposed to dysfunctional levels of serotonin, that the issues worth burdening your friends over are dying relationships, and cheating husbands and failing grades. Not the fact that , even at your age, you are too tired to pour water onto a plate and scrub.