You’re worthless. You don’t matter. Your existence means nothing: you may have been something special before, but not now, and never again.
This isn’t me talking.
That’s Depression, talking in His sweetly sinister voice.
That voice has the ability to permeate the nooks and crannies of my mind. It is a noxious gas tainting my memories, even the good ones. I’ve been living with it for so long—more often than not, in eighteen years—that it’s difficult for me to ignore it.
There are days when the voice is small. Unable to stay silent, it continuously chirps like crickets at dusk during a pleasant walk outdoors. Those days, it’s just background noise that you don’t pay attention to. Annoying, yes, but bearable.
Then there are days when His voice is louder than church bells, ringing clear in those darkest hours before dawn. Those days, I feel sure that everyone can hear it, too: that I am, as He says, broken beyond repair. That I am unlovable, unworthy, and unnecessary.
Remember Peeta Mellark in Mockingjay, when he was brainwashed until he doesn’t know which memories are real or not? I feel hijacked, too. My rational mind is telling me one thing—that the love I’ve experienced from everyone is true and earnest—but Depression is painting a different picture.
And I don’t like the pictures He paints of my memories, of myself. They’re in stark black and white, with unyielding, heavy brush strokes. As though warmth and lightness have never existed, edged out from the canvas. He paints all my happy memories with a looming, dreaded shadow of doubt.
Unfortunately, I’ve stared at these pictures long enough to see them even when my eyes are closed.