Depressed brain says I’m a bad spouse. That I’m a bad artist. A bad friend. A bad family member. That I’m stupid for wanting to go to grad school. That it’s dumb for me to try songwriting, because I’m going to be bad at that too. And on, and on, and on.
I try to tell myself those aren’t true. But when things get bad inside my head, those things feel true. Like they’re the truest things in the world. It’s so hard to fight them off.
Depression needs to fuck right off.