And one more:

The Door to Dreams

Somewhere along the specter of an ethereal plain lies a door to dreams of things of yet to unfold, to tales of stories that have yet to be told, a spirit searches longingly for the place it calls home.

“Oh, why must I suffer to live a life in such pain”, the spirit says. “I know that I can indeed be selfish and vain, but to live such a life is no life at all when the door to dreams lies just beyond a wall.”

A wall that is more than a centimeter deep that lies between the state of restfulness and sleep and causes the spirit of my eternal soul to weep.

But this wall is not a wall at all. It is me.. and all.

Since all that exists will fall, and all that there is is me, I wonder along this winding road, this contorted path just where I am meant to be?

I cannot see for I am blind, I cannot hear for I am deaf, but the only thing I know for certain is death.

It comes to me in the night, and causes my heart great fright, but the scream of my tethered spirit is heard in vain, for the only thing that I am is a name.

A name that carries with it this weight of great shame. For in the end, I am only a lonely spirit trapped in this vessel called a brain.

The cries of the soul are heard on deft ears, the dreams of dreamers are felt in tears.

Of dreams that may not nor ever will be, of things that I may not nor ever will see. I lie awake in fear of who I might be when I awake from the dreams of things that cannot nor ever will be.

I have recently been discussing with my therapist about this very issue, and she said that my case was slightly unusual. Whereas most people with depression are trying to fill up a metaphorical cup, it seems that my cup has a hole at the bottom of it, so any of the things that I try to fill it with are here one day and gone the next. In a sense, any joy that I do get from activity is brief when it comes to having to face the music of my own mind.

I’m trying my best by going to therapy to figure this out, but to be honest, I think that my illness is such an integral part of me that it might not ever go away.  It seems that even when I am happy briefly, it has  a weighted quality to it. It’s hard to explain in words, but that’s what I feel.

So far I’ve been coping by doing some activities that I used to do as a kid, mainly reading and writing poetry and stories. Being able to express the pain I feel inside of me through the use of stories and words is strangely liberating. I can’t say that my stories will bring me much success, but they do help me deal with some incredibly dark images that I have in my head.

Hey, Stephanie

Thank you for responding to my post.  I struggle with a variety of psychological issues that I am trying to address with therapy. I have an appointment set up for this Thursday.

To answer your question, I believe that I am unworthy of happiness because I myself am so fundamentally flawed and useless that I feel that I don’t deserve it. It’s hard to explain exactly in words, but I feel deep down that the main problem with me is that I am me. I feel as if I am some sort of defect that probably shouldn’t even exist at all. I’ve felt this way for most of my life, even this weekend when I went up to visit a friend who is struggling with depression, I still feel this way, as if I am trying to fool myself into believing that I’m worthwhile when I know deep down inside that I am not.

My therapist has asked me to consider whether this is the depression talking, and I really don’t think it is.

I’ve been going back to the Charles Dicken’s quote: “no one is worthless in this world that can lighten the load of another.”

Hey, Jim. I’m sorry that you feel that way. I don’t think anyone should ever have to feel awful about themselves. I know exactly how it feels. Let me try to support you the best I can.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to report. I clicked the wrong button.

I appreciate your help, Peter. I’ve never considered before an anachronism like that. That’s a very interesting way you put it. I guess aside from what you said, False Evidence Appearing to Be Real, I also think that I’ve neglected myself for such a long time that I don’ t know who I am anymore. When I was younger, I never had a self-identity. I just did what everyone else was doing because that’s what I thought was needed to survive.

Now that I am older, I am starting to think about the man I would like to become, the type of man that people would talk about at a funeral. What would they say about me?

Life seems like a giant question mark at this point. I have a feeling that there is a deeper meaning to be found than just the daily lull of survival, but I must have not found it yet. Either that, or I am simply too optimistic.

The thing that’s really scary at times is that reality doesn’t even seem real, which could simply be the result of depersonalization from anxiety, but sometimes I have this sneaking suspicion that I am not control of my own thoughts, and it can be enough to drive you absolutely insane if you let it.

Hello, Peter. Thanks again for responding to my post.  I understand that through my time in therapy that I have persistently low self-esteem, and likely have a genetic case of depression. That isn’t to say that I can’t get better (I believe that it is possible), but my default mode of thinking is mostly negative.

The funny thing is that most people would not describe me as negative at all, but that’s only because I’ve gotten very good at hiding my emotions at a young age. If they could understand what it was like to be me, I think they would be shocked at all the dark and pessimistic things that invade my thoughts.

I realize that this type of thinking is likely to lead to worse outcomes for myself in the future, but it’s somewhat of an odd addiction for me.  I rationalize it as I can. “The evidence thus far has shown that I am absolutely pathetic and broken, and so that’s what the truth is–” and then a really odd thing happens: I recognize this faulty thinking and try to correct it, but my brain fires back with a counterpoint, essentially ending up refuting my argument. It keeps telling me that these things I say are lies to make me feel better, and it consistently repeats the message that I will be alone, cold, and unsuccessful for the rest of my life because I am a failure, and that’s all I ever will be.

This might be as a result of having genetic depression, I really am not sure.

Hello Anita,

Well, it definitely affected my  motor skills, as I was unable to do things that most kids took for granted, such as holding a scissors or pencil until much later, but with the help of an occupational therapist in school, I was eventually able to do it without much struggle (for that, I am eternally grateful).

I still have some issues, particularly with stiff and tight joints that come with the condition. As a result, even if I were to stretch everyday, I would have the flexibility of a wooden board.

Another issue that pops up is with visual spatial recognition.  Everything behind me always looks much farther away than it actually is, which has caused a few accidents and mishaps in the past.

As far as relationships, I haven’t thought about it, but it could be something like Autism Spectrum Disorder, where people have a hard time forming relationships. It is hard to explain, but I’ve always felt alienated from most people, as if they could never understand me, no matter how much they tried.

I suppose, however, that since no one can ever know what it is like to be ourselves, existence itself is kind of a lonely thing.