Maybe this is a step in the right direction. Maybe it’s one of the few things I’ve felt like I’ve done right lately. Maybe this won’t even do anything at all. For what feels like maybe the past hour in the middle of the night of all times everything has just hit me like a freight train. It’s a strong feeling of depression and existentialism that has been locked away behind a facade and behind the medications that has broken free. I don’t feel at home even when I’m at home. I have a feeling of “I want to go home” despite being home. I get home from work and often times I just feel needlessly tired even after having slept enough the previous nights. I just sleep through dinner. I feel like I don’t truly care about much if anything at all. I feel like emotions beyond the low, depressed state I’m in now are just the artificial machinations of the anti depressants, that I only feel “normal” when their effects haven’t inevitably worn off. I have no motivation to even get up for work in the mornings and yet I somehow still force myself to. I feel stuck. I feel like the woman in The Sandman comic who got hold of Dream’s bag of sand and used it to be in a perpetual dream state all while rotting away. Even when I’m not tired and clearly don’t need sleep I still sleep. Just to escape. It’s the time of year when you’re supposed to be happy but that feels like bullshit. This time of year just brings me back to a few years ago when I was stupidly kicked out of the house and I’m still here. Nowhere to go. I can afford an apartment as long as I have a roommate but there no one I know who needs a roommate. My parents seem like a ticking time bomb at this point. Everything I do feels like it’s wrong and that I fucked it up in their eyes and I don’t know why. The pressure to move the hell out of here is mounting faster every day and I can take it. I can’t for the life me put this shit into speech even with my psychologist. This makes me feel like I’m going to end up in the psych ward. I feel so alone yet conflicted because I know it’s not true yet it feels like a lie. I’ve hit the point where I’m telling strangers on the internet what’s going on as if someone somewhere out there knows this feeling, these feelings. Of despair, anger towards yourself and the world, of existentialism. Before anyone asks, no, I am not suicidal and have never been. Doing that would only transfer the pain to others even though it feels like there are only as many people as I can count on one hand who truly care anyway.