groping blindly at possibility with the desperation of a man who had lost hope.

I should just cut the bullshit and tell the truth. Be honest with myself, not anybody else, but me. I had no idea what I was doing. I loved to give off the aura of self-confidence(contained?) but it was all a delicately assembled lie. My room is a mess, my bed with it's permanent depression of a nesting animal. I make things difficult for myself, and I enjoy it. I called him with the proposal and instant regret. Made me realize why I had left in the first place. I should never work with Virgos. I'm spiraling out of control, completely losing my bearings. I want to escape from it all. Why I had the idea to help other people fulfill their dreams by fulfilling their orders, I can't understand. Well, I do understand why I had the idea, but I'm 22 and ready to build a life helping other's fulfill their dreams? What about my dreams? I want to dance, I want to sing, I want to write, I want to cook, I want to paint, I want to fulfill that hole in my heart like everybody else and here I am with the clever idea to spend most of my time helping other people fill theirs. I guess... don't get me wrong, I think it's very kind and it would free me from the manacles of regular work. But what am I thinking? I want to tie myself to nobody but myself. I think I need to go away for a while, away from here, away from myself, if possible. 

I'm severely depressed. Don't quote me on that. Here I am, self-diagnosing. That's not to say that I'm not depressed, not to belittle my symptoms, but I do feel a sense of scorn towards myself, self-diagnosing. Anyways. I do wonder for my need for medication. Or something. Feel super unbalanced. My room really is a nest. Things are everywhere. I shed my clothes each day and with equal amounts of limp apathy and vindictive sadism flick them onto the floor. I claw my own eyes out every day in my mind's eye. I throw things. I rage. I drive my car into pillars. I tear my own hair out. I break things. I scream and curse. My body doesn't lift a finger though. It's relieving in a sense, and also suffocating. I think I'm worried that if I do do some crazy things, people will chalk it up to rage and not understand the mental machinations inside. 

Depression is a place though. And often times a choice. I'd do well to remember that, though it does effectively kill my romantic ruminations of depression. It's like, for example, if impassive feeling is ground level and elation 10 feet above ground, distress and unhappiness would be, say, 10 feet under ground. But whatever depression is, when you first develop it, it digs your hole deeper and deeper, until your unhappiness is 20 feet under ground, as opposed to other people's 10 feet. And sometimes the hole can get deeper and deeper and you reach new all-time-lows. Of course that doesn't mean every time you get upset you hit 20 feet. But 20 feet is always there, and you always sort of know how to get there. It is true, physiologically, that you form new neurological pathways in the brain with repeated actions. So in my head, I have roads that lead to depression, as a place. You, whoever, might not have roads that lead to depression, but they can be formed, as well as forgotten. 

I'll never forget the waiting room at the UCLA Medical Center in West LA, trying not to compare myself to all the shoe-less, cart lugging, wildly gesticulating people filling the space, sitting next to me, hoping for the same help that I needed. We just all want to feel whole. To fill the hole. Is that so much to ask?