While I have abandoned this blog for a while, it is not forgotten. I just…did not know what to say or how to word what I wanted to say, which led to numerous drafts discarded in different occasions. Then yesterday, someone anonymously told me they liked my writing, and that they wondered why I have not updated my blog in a long while. Well, anon, that was your answer.

And in the spirit of personal blog-keeping, I imagine I need to somewhat update my nonexistent readers of my current state. The thing is as usual, I don’t know how to describe it. You all probably know that I quit my studies in Oceanography, and that I am currently working as a freelance translator as I study French. But the rest, the rest I do not know how to explain. Is there a word to explain the feeling one gets after escaping the prison, only to amble aimlessly afterwards, because one’s objective, for so long, was to escape the prison? Is there word to explain the big void inside that is both loud and so, so quiet, that one longs company one day and detests it another? Is there a word to explain a session with a trusted therapist who had previously helped one escape depression not a year ago, only to have her recite a variation of “suck it up and get over it”? Or a conversation with one’s closest family, whose only solution lies in her deity? (I accompanied her to church lately, as I wished to humor her and I remembered the church, while not exactly full of divine whispers of wisdom carried by seraphs, was a place of solace. It did not help.)

The world was all abuzz with the news of Robin Williams’ death not long ago, which sparked discussions on depression and suicide. I do not think I could ever kill myself; I am averse to pain, and as I know it no method within my reach is free of pain. At times, however, I thought if I could just curl myself up into a ball I could shrink, smaller and smaller until I ceased to exist, and I wished it to happen every time I go to sleep. I (and the internet) would diagnose myself with depression, as my therapist did late last year.

I loathe that word.

Neat three syllables to explain away the inexplicable–there is no cure, there is no cause–and the big chasm in which it drowns people. Logically, it was good that people talk about depression, because then people who know nothing about it start to learn of it, and that is great. That is brilliant. The discussion helped us become better people. And yet for me, a person currently undergoing it, it grates. “It gets better” does not help. The fact that there is no actual solution does not help. I have a work deadline and I cannot focus enough to work and finish it in time and I have so many things to do, promises that I made before I relapsed, and every single platitude you can throw at me does not help the fact that I am failing at what I should do, and I cannot. Afford. To. Fail.

I am sorry. I know some of you mean well, but this is what I am right now. A mess, and I snap and run to you or away from you and I shut the lights off or escape towards the bright noisy crowd, and I am not myself–I refuse to accept this as a part of me, it is a disease and it needs to go–and I make long, rant-y blog posts filled with run-on sentences. It’s just that if I press backspace, I would end up scrapping this draft and then there would be no update, and I promised myself that I would update my blog.

If I snapped at you, in real life or virtually, I’m sorry. It seemed that the one thing I know best is to say hurtful words, and maybe that is because of the lifelong practice of me saying it to myself.

To the outside world, I am fine. I have work. I live. I still meet my friends. I still–

I am happy, I tell people who greet me “hey, how are you? Hope you are well.”

I am happy.

I need to tell myself that until I can believe my own lies.