While I’m naturally prone to melancholy, lately I’ve been finding myself in the thick of one depressive episode after the other. The kind of depression where you lay in bed for hours on end, turn off your phone, and forget to eat because we’re all dying anyway so who cares, right?
Wrong, actually. I cared.
I spent so much time caring what people were thinking about me, wondering why they slighted me or mistreated me. Trying to pick apart their motives, and looking within myself to try and figure out what was wrong with me, because it just had to be me. I’ve let people control my mood, control my actions, and take up residency in my mind rent-free.
Well, that ends now. Ok, technically it ended last weekend, but you get it. I’ve finally learned how to stop giving a f***.
Before we get started here I want to let you know that I hate being an adult with every fiber of my being. There, I said it. Call me negative, call me jaded, just don’t call me because I’m probably busy doing something adulty like budgeting or eating kale and I don’t have time to chat. Really, I feel like I don’t have much time for anything these days, well, except for happy hour- but we all know as adults that happy hour attendance is mandatory.
Besides exposing me to the beauty that is champagne mixed with orange juice, adulthood has done me no favors. My metabolism has slowed, I’m more depressed than I’ve ever been, and I’m losing friends at record speed. I know these things are “natural” “growing pains” and they “happen to everyone” but really, is that supposed to cheer me up? Knowing we’re all becoming soulless zombies who live for the weekend, stunt on the ‘gram, and Tinder swipe til our thumbs go numb?
This is not what I signed up for.