Depression wears many masks; it takes many forms. It can be a little voice, whispering that you’ll never make it, that it’s not worth it, might as well go back to bed. It can be a gray blanket wrapped around your mind and gauze over your eyes, so that everything around seems muted and dull. It can be a wash of hopelessness, coming over you as you stand in a room, agonizing over what to eat for dinner and feeling that eating dinner is just too [expletive] mundane to think about compared to the pain you’re in, but you know that your problems are so tiny and little compared to the greater ills of the world that you feel stupid and ashamed for even feeling depressed, but you just can’t feel happy no matter what you do, and you worry there’s something wrong with you; you KNOW there’s something wrong with you but it seems too much to deal with and you feel you’ll be like this forever, which is depressing.
It can be the false feeling, the lying voice that says that thing right there, that harmful thing, will take away the pain, make it stop. It can be your eyes drawing to a blade.
That will make it stop. That’s the voice of a lie.