Hei. Jeg har begynt å forstå at jeg kanskje er deprimert. Jeg leser for tiden en bok som heter The Goldfinch, skrevet av Donna Tartt, og da jeg kom til dette sitatet så følte jeg at det beskrev meg godt. Jeg er ikke nødvendigvis trist, bare sliten og lei og tanken på resten av livet på lignende måte som i sitatet sliter meg ut. Jeg har ikke selvmordstanker, tanken på å dø skremmer meg. Men hvorfor ble jeg født? Hvorfor er jeg her? Jeg er utslitt.

"But depression wasn’t the word. This was a plunge encompassing sorrow and revulsion far beyond the personal: a sick, drenching nausea at all humanity and human endeavor from the dawn of time. The writhing loathsomeness of the biological order. Old age, sickness, death. No escape for anyone. Even the beautiful ones were like soft fruit about to spoil. And yet somehow people still kept fucking and breeding and popping out new fodder for the grave, producing more and more new beings to suffer like this was some kind of redemptive, or good, or even somehow morally admirable thing: dragging more innocent creatures into the lose-lose game. Squirming babies and plodding, complacent, hormone-drugged moms. Oh, isn’t he cute? Awww. Kids shouting and skidding in the playground with no idea what future Hells awaited them: boring jobs and ruinous mortgages and bad marriages and hair loss and hip replacements and lonely cups of coffee in an empty house and a colostomy bag at the hospital. Most people seemed satisfied with the thin decorative glaze and the artful stage lighting that, sometimes, made the bedrock atrocity of the human predicament look somewhat more mysterious or less abhorrent. People gambled and golfed and planted gardens and traded stocks and had sex and bought new cars and practiced yoga and worked and prayed and redecorated their homes and got worked up over the news and fussed over their children and gossiped about their neighbors and pored over restaurant reviews and founded charitable organizations and supported political candidates and attended the U.S. Open and dined and travelled and distracted themselves with all kinds of gadgets and devices, flooding themselves incessantly with information and texts and communication and entertainment from every direction to try to make themselves forget it: where we were, what we were. But in a strong light there was no good spin you could put on it. It was rotten top to bottom. Putting your time in at the office; dutifully spawning your two point five; smiling politely at your retirement party; then chewing on your bedsheet and choking on your canned peaches at the nursing home. It was better never to have been born–never to have wanted anything, never to have hoped for anything."

Hvordan har du tålmodighet å skrive en engelsk text om depresjon ..som Kansje forsterker de tankene.Du er helt sikkert en inteligent person..og å lese en engelsk bok beviser dine intellektuelle evner.????Og vær bevist at inteligent personer reflekterer mer åendelig og er oftere deprimerte ?Mørket blir mørkere hvis ikke vi selv jobber frem i lyset ..mulig man trenger profesjonell hjelp eller ej..saken er at ingenting hjelper bra nok hvis vi ikke tar jobben seriøst å endre tankemønsteret som tærer oss med negativitet .:):)Du er inteligent..og det er en positiv ting du kan bruke som verktøyene lese andre ting og som gir deg håp og strategier å komme frem i lyset.:):)Klem fra meg.Du er verdifull

Kan føle meg igjen i det. Jeg føler på en meningsløshet for tiden som handler om mer enn bare meg og mitt. Alt er egentlig meningsløst i det store bildet, hvilket kan være fint, men hva er vitsen? Jeg vet ikke hva jeg vil med mitt liv, men jeg er i hvert fall en dreven konsumer, og det er noe groteskt over det. Jeg sitter ikke å prøver å filosofere meg til noen smarte svar på store spørsmål. Jeg forsøker i grunn bare å finne ut av meg og mitt.