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.