You see the problem with depression, isn’t as much about how I feel. I understand how I feel and I am partially fine with it. I have days where I don’t want this to go on and I have slightly, only slightly better days too. You see it’s not as much about how I feel. It’s about how terrible I suppose to make others feel with my presence, with my constant sighs, with my recluse, with my discontentment about everything. I know it’s utterly annoying to be in presence of such a killjoy and yet I can’t help it. I try, believe me, I do. I try and fix myself so people can be free of the necessity to constantly ask me, “Why am I so miserable?” or worse “Why do I pretend to be sad?” But I don’t know how to answer that. Relationships, love, people who are trying to cheer me, trying to make me happy so desperately. They do things that make me feel so endeared, but the thing they want me to feel, HAPPINESS, I can never seem to define it. I know not why I’m such a blue person. I just am. Of course, if I really go deep into it I can pinpoint the copious amount of memories that acted as catalysts to my condition. But inherently I suppose I was always predisposed to be this way now. I have a lot of things that can make someone jealous, envious perhaps. But still it’s just nearly impossible for me to look at the so-called bright side that everyone keeps talking about, or for that matter, see any good in myself.