I’m a Functioning Depressive

I think I’m what you’d call a functioning depressed person. Kind of like a functioning alcoholic, you know?

But when I think about it, who is not depressed these days? Especially in my generation. There’re so many things to be sad about, though I think the root lies in cultural/social alienation – not fitting in, not belonging, not feeling wanted.

That’s how I feel.

The world don’t want me ’cause I don’t look good on paper; I can’t find a job in something I want. And I feel like the outsider because of it. I feel like an outcast because of my differences, my underground interests. I’m an oddity, too self-aware for my own good.

But maybe it’s not depression. Maybe it’s some artificial need to label everything. After all, it is the 21st century. Could it just be the causality of life? A side-effect of technological drowning?

But I love. I love deeply. I do and I can.

And I laugh. I joke. I do everything to make others laugh.

I’m also responsible. I do laundry and dishes and cook and clean.

I don’t cower in bed all day. I walk in the morning and smile at the sunshine and breeze.

But I still don’t feel right inside.

And you know, even though I don’t have a job, I don’t feel unfulfilled in that regard. It’s mostly the fear of what others think that bring me down. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on “office life”. In fact, I feel I’ve had my fill.

I don’t know.

Some days everything matters. Others, nothing.

All I can do is smile through the indifference.