Insanely healthy
Sometimes I'm ashamed, to what do I owe my insane health? Why have I survived, over and over again, the horrible things that have killed others? What is it? Happiness? I've seen a lot of people die. Some are old age, for a few it has been a conscious choice, but most of all due to illness. It's always been intense experiences. And I always ask myself, why do they, and I don't?
Sometimes I get tired of it. I don't want it anymore. I don't want to fight with pain all the time. I no longer want to fight against unlawfulness that is the cause of innocent people. I don't want to take care of the worries I should be educating. I don't want to live any longer. It's ready. I'm done with it. Why can't I just die? I was supposed to be dead a long time ago, right? I'm tired of seeing others go around and wondering why she is, and I'm not?
Depression doesn't fit someone like me. After all, am I not insanely healthy? Sure, I still have some pains, I usually trivialize them, I wave them away, like, well, at least I'm alive. I should be thankful for letting me feel pain. Be thankful that I can keep my head above water again and again. Grateful for all the people around me who surround me with love. Sure, I limp occasionally, and I still have frequent bodily failure, but it always works out. So much luck I have to reward with cheers, hurray, hurray, I live! Depressions are strange elusive malignant neoplasms. They work about the same as cancer cells. The subprocess is sometimes smothered in the bud, sometimes the proliferation is stopped, the medication occasionally turns on and just when you think you've overcome it, it resurrects its head.
Sometimes I'm ashamed of those devastating thoughts. Then I'll dwell on those I've lost. I experience the pain. I'm slurping from the memory. I'm getting renewed energy. I'm alive. Hooray. I bring myself relief, too, because it suits someone like me. A rasegoist.
