Echoes of Desolation

Echoes of Desolation

Well, I suppose this is the part where at this age I should be confident, super successful, and living it up. That would definitely have been a better read, if we're honest, but I'm not writing to make you feel good or inspire you here today. How about we speak the truth? Unfiltered, raw, and filthy, all dirt is exposed. When have you been great? When last did you feel as though the sun was shining through you and just a smile from you could make anyone's day? Yeah, I thought so. I used to have so many plans and great ideas; dreams seemed to be bursting forth, and then, in the blink of an eye, I'd feel like I was covered in clouds; death was near, or at least I hoped it was. You see, mornings weren't my friend. I can't believe I'm sharing this, but waking up every morning left me disappointed. I couldn't understand why I was still alive. So many people out there were sick and dying, and I was hoping that life would show me some mercy and help me end it all. So yeah, waking up morning after morning was exhausting, and getting up, bathing, and breathing were just exhausting. 

Maybe it was because kids made fun of me at school, the bullies, but come on, I think most of us here have been picked on, but you got back up, dusted yourself off, and continued living, right? If you said so, please know that I envy you. So maybe that was my first problem—never being able to dust myself off; negative words and experiences seemed to latch onto me, and I just never seemed to have the strength to let them go. I had no friends; I was smart, so it came in handy for kids to be polite to me whenever exams were coming around, just to make me feel like someone for their convenience and my disadvantage, because after I helped, I was discarded. Alone, unwanted, and unseen, I told myself right there that I didn't want any children; I didn't want them to feel like I did, and what made it worse was that I knew I wouldn't be able to teach them how to fight, how to dust their shoulders off, and how to drown out the loud negative voices.

There shouldn't be another me; I didn't even think that there was ever going to be one. A coward is a pushover, empty, taking up the space that someone else could have made better use of. If there could have been anyone out there that would have seen me, a beaten-up shell, a tortured mind, a black hole, but beautiful. Pity, how I saw the beauty in everything and everyone else but myself.

In the haunting corridors of my childhood, I was trapped in a perpetual state of desolation as the weight of depression bore down upon my fragile shoulders. Each day seemed to blur into the next, a bleak existence devoid of joy and light. Despair followed me like a shadow, its haunting presence a constant reminder of the pain I endured. As I bid farewell to this chapter of my journey, the spectres of desolation still linger, their ethereal grip leaving me with an indelible sense of melancholy. In the next instalment, I shall delve deeper into the abyss, unravelling the harrowing layers of my journey through the sombre depths of depression.