Depression is a hell of a catalyst. Those days, weeks and months where you have to force yourself to live, dreadful aren't they? Sometimes it just seems like things will never get better. Post your emotions, don't go it alone. If someone said, "Hell, Will, you're not a very social person, are you?" I'd have to slap them upside the head for spouting out drivel obvious to those with eyes. I'm a recluse, my closest friends are in my head. I spend my nights in the dim light of my room, listening to assorted music and reading whatever book I can get my mitts on. When I deign to tear myself away from my solitude, I spend my time on the lonely streets, walking to nowhere.* My rowdy Friday nights are spent writing, with the marvelous lead singer of Boyce Avenue crooning in the background. When I party, I kick back and watch Peter Griffin coasting through one of his usual zany antics. My true love is the product of human ingenuity throughout the ages. Literature, she's gorgeous, is she not? I see others smiling, laughing and messing about with their friends. I see a boy flirting with a girl and her responding positively. And as for me, I see myself marinating in my own depressing funk. I can forge relationships through writing, I haven't with my mouth in six years. Talking face to face, their eyes on yours, it terrifies me and I shrink away. I've lost more than loved and am unable to replace what has gone, due to my lack of social skills. Though, if I could change such an ingrained piece of my personality, which I'm glad I cannot, I wouldn't. The introspection occasionally leaves me feeling melancholy and lonely, like I'm the only freak in the circus. It's awful, devoting yourself to something very few, if any will appreciate. But you know what, I wouldn't have it any other way.*
Just wait till you graduate middle school. Combination lockers and mystery loaf, now THAT'S depressing.
I've had some close friends over the years but not many and I'm not comfortable in social settings most often. I'm used to labs. I've fine teaching a class or giving a lecture. Big audiences never bothered me. But put me in the middle of a cocktail party of strangers and I'll find a corner to hide. I'd never be the life of any party. Now that all my friends are dead and I'm mostly house bound I write, design and read. I used to admin a forum but couldn't keep up with the typing. I can't feel the keys unless I press hard and have limited movement. It's a pain in the posterior but I manage. I've also known a few guys that went through much worse, so I figure I'm lucky and have no right to complain. Hell, wouldn't do me much good anyway would it? You do what you can and when there's nothing you can do about it, you go on. Worrying or whining ain't going to make it better, just unpleasant. I'm happy because I choose to be, period.
