flippant (you were warned)

Kaya.
Or 'Effy' as she may forever be known.
Amazing arms. Collar bones. Neck.
Generally amazing.

It shocks me. The lack of understanding people display toward depression; it really blows my broken mind. I suffer from depression (and with it). My best friend died and it triggered a major depressive episode. Yes. It's illogical to see someone die, to see them loose their opportunities to see their dreams realised, and to grow so despondent about oneself and one's own opportunities that you would willingly give them up. But the thing is; when you feel this low your choices become so narrowed that they are no real choice at all. Trying to think and act positively are an impossibility. The plane of feeling-okay is so far out of reach it becomes unplottable and it's easier to plumb the depths of despair because they are your neighbourhood, your home, your wallpaper, and any door you open leads to a landscape painted in melancholic colours.

My doctor said to me 'you need to get over this,' he said I'm wasting the best years of my life, that I have a choice. A choice to? What? I have the choice to not be sad? No, I don't. I'm depressed. On my scale of options, boxes to tick and routes to follow I have the choice of:

A: I feel dead. 
I feel nothing. Preferable.
B: I wish I were dead. 
I have the ability to want something and show an interest in future possibility. Well done.
C: I wish I had the strength, energy or ingenuity to contemplate actually killing myself. 
I am contemplating actually being involved in taking steps to direct my existence. Positive.
D: I feel like I can get out of bed and possibly take a shower in anticipation of, yet again, being reminded that the appearance of being prepared does not necessitate a desire to do anything.
I feel like I have a duty to function. This is burdensome.
C: I got out of bed. 
I attempted to live. I will probably realise that this should entail some feeling of want for the now and motivation for the future. I do not feel these things. Thus I feel like a failure. I also feel guilty for having the time and money to enjoy something so indulgent as a mental illness.
E: I leave the house. 
I will undoubtedly encounter some people. They remind me that I am not like them. I am alone in some kind of weird sociological maelstrom in which it is expected that I engage with others' identities, conversation and actions. The noise of talking, squawking which terrifies and confuses me, reminds me how tired I am, that I can't engage because... well, why bother when I am actually dead. Can't they see? I should be at home feeling dead because that would at least be soothingly consistent.
... return to A.
Repeat in a cyclical fashion potentially adorned with angry, sad, or for-no-apparent-reason tears or almost seizure-inducing feelings of rage.

So those are my choices. So many choices. Would you like to have some of my choices Mr-Doctor-Man? I mean, they are so pretty; all laid out alphabetically. Alluring, no? A platter of treats. Which one would you like? You can have more than one in one day. It's okay! They don't make you fat (many as you like!)

Today I ate: Three apples and 250ml of grapefruit juice.

Would you like to have an eating disorder too? They're really fun. It's so easy to do. You just don't eat. But if you do (that's cheating and it's really, really naughty) you should beat yourself up about for absolute hours and should probably throw-up. I mean really I only care about being thin because Cosmopolitan convinced me I need to look like a pre-pubescent girl so that I can find myself a man! But anyhow! ROFL. I should get some hobbies and probably read up on this thing called phlegminism.

Seriously. Smart people can be so dumb. I know. I'm one of them. (And ya'know what we'll take away from this; 'ohmygawd, she called herself smart!')