Daughter of Depression

Hi everyone. This is another late-night outpouring, a quiet attempt to soothe my anxiety and ease the discomfort that sits inside me. I write because sometimes it’s the only thing that helps me calm down and make sense of what I feel. I’ve tried everything—five years of psychiatric treatment, two uninterrupted years of therapy. Some things have improved, others haven’t. The thoughts remain present, lingering like a shadow, and the feelings stay too. I’m tired of trying, and yet I don’t give up. I keep going.

I know that while I destroy, I also build. I hold both truths at once: the part of me that collapses and the part of me that rebuilds. But it’s difficult. It’s draining.

I’m tired of making bad decisions. I’m tired of giving everything I have and still feeling like it’s never enough. I’m tired of days passing as if they were ten minutes long, slipping away while I feel like I’m standing still. I’m tired of being myself. Sometimes I believe I’ll never manage… me. I wasn’t born knowing how to live, and in many ways, I feel like a daughter of depression.

I’m tired of locking myself inside and pretending others should act the opposite way—open, communicative, patient—when I struggle to do the same. I’m tired of my tendency to over-give, to support and support and support endlessly, without setting boundaries, absorbing everything from everyone as if I had no right to say “stop.” I’m tired of how my own decisions trap me. They condemn me because I don’t have financial independence yet, and that lack of independence makes me feel indebted. Everything gets blurry then—the focus, the direction, the sense of who I am.

You’re inside your own head, and I’m inside mine. And that’s fine… until it stops being fine. Until silence grows heavy. Until we stop talking and then get angry without knowing exactly why. Two minds locked within themselves, colliding.

I feel alone—not because I am, but because my pain feels senseless. Because the ache comes from not finding the pleasure in living, from feeling disconnected from the joy others seem to reach more easily. And the more I try to explain it, the harder it becomes, as if words slip through my fingers before they can land anywhere solid.

Let me make something very clear:

This writing is an attempt to calm the hurt, not to feed it.

It’s a search for relief—tender, imperfect, but sincere.

With these words, I’m trying to keep going. Trying to soften the weight of the day. Writing is the one tool that helps me breathe again. When I put my feelings into words, they lose some of their power. They stop spinning endlessly in my mind. They become something I can look at instead of drown in.

So here I am, trying again.

Trying to live with what weighs me down.

Trying to understand myself even when it feels impossible.

Trying to hold on to the tiny sparks of hope that still show up, even when I don’t expect them. And maybe that’s enough for now—just holding on to the smallest signs that I haven’t lost myself completely.

I may be a daughter of depression, but I’m also a daughter of persistence. I write today because I’m still here, still searching, still trying to turn pain into something I can hold—something shaped, something named, something that no longer controls me.

But hey — don’t lose heart. I’ll still be around here, writing my way through it all.

We keep going not by pretending it doesn’t hurt, but by refusing to carry it in silence.