Depression Is the Secret We Share

Depression is the secret we share.

I found this written in one of my notebooks. I can’t remember if it’s something I came up with, or if it’s a line I found in a philosophical video or in a book – which is more likely – yet somehow, for some reason, I felt inclined to write it down. It’s a peculiar thing, to come across past pain, not remembering the exact reason for said pain. Of course, I could take a guess, and I would probably find the right answer quite easily, but it is not the same as knowing, recalling, reliving.

There are so many aspects of ourselves that we don’t know about. So many memories we have forgotten. I’ve often wondered to myself how much of myself I’m forgetting right at this instance. Right at this point in life, what is it I know about myself? I can recall the generic facts, my name, my age, who my friends are, who are not. Yet, without help, without the aid of an object or a phrase, I can’t recall the things that rest inside the deep chambers of my mind.

The urge to remember is strong, it’s one of my greatest longings, yet also one my greatest fears. I long to be remembered, not only by others but by myself. I have always felt the deepest urge to know everything about myself, to never forget anything. It’s why I journal. It’s why I write letters to myself each New Years. I want to know who I am and I want to rediscover myself infinitely. In a sense, life is about reliving. Going back to old moments as you discover new ones, for how could you find joy in a new moment, if you have nothing else to compare it to? Nothing else to relate it to?

In our moments of sorrow, reliving is all we can do. We relive the moments we shared with the ones we have lost. We relive, we remember, and because it hurts, we cry, or we try to at least. It seems almost cruel, to put such a burden on our friends and family, to wish for them to remember you. What we really wish for, is to make a mark on the world. For the world to feel that we are gone when we finally leave. For others to mourn us, as we mourned others before.

In a sense, journaling is our gift to ourselves, yet also to those who will miss us. While we pour our secrets into paper, our true selves, the aspects of our being we often don’t share – the silly doodles, the cries of help, the badly written poems; we don’t realise how much of a treasure we’re burying for those to find when we’re gone. Our words keep us alive in the hearts of those who love us. Through them, they’ll be able to rediscover us infinitely. It’ll be hard, for the truth is often bitter. It might invoke anger and tears in the ones who read, but one must hope warmth will ensue. One must hope they will understand us better afterwards.  

But living to relive is a double-edged sword. Although it is great to document – healthy, beautiful – to think of ones life as something one leaves behind is a bitter way to live. Life is about sensations and experiences, life is people and thoughts and feelings. The only moment you truly will every experience, is the current moment. The past and future don’t really exist, as the past is already gone and the future hasn’t arrived yet. And so, you need to ask yourself, what are you going to do with this moment?

We waste so much of our life wondering what we should have done instead and thinking of what we’re going to do next, that we forget to pay mind to where we are right now. We forget to take in the view, because we are already at the next one, or at a previous one. It is not exactly our fault, our brains are simply wired that way, to connect similar things together, to be reminded of something else, but it is something we have to be careful about doing, if we want to live a meaningful life. Use your moments wisely. For they’re the only thing you truly have.

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