Somewhere along the line, I was erased. Gwyneth Lewis describes depression as a murder mystery, where you are both the victim and the detective. I can't figure out what did me in. My own cowardice, I suppose. My own fear of LIFE. Go figure. The life I've been afraid to live is the reason I no longer have any life at all. I'm nothing, nobody to anybody, not even to myself. I don't recognize myself any more. It's like I'm a ghost, moving through the world but never actually having an impact in it. Invisible.

I don't understand anything. I really don't understand people. Basic interactions confuse me. I never know the right thing to say or do. I can't react to a lot of things; I just don't know how, so I freeze while my mind runs through the possibilities. What do I do now? Smile? Apologize? Laugh? Wave? Say hello? Turn and walk away? Write a letter or make a phone call? I never know what to do or when to do it. I have absolutely no understanding of social conventions, no idea how to approach other people, no idea how to have a casual conversation. It's weird. My father can charm absolutely anybody; he's one of those guys everybody likes, even if he doesn't particularly like them. My mother commands respect as soon as she walks into a room. She's tough, self-assured. And me, the child of these two highly personable people, I'm so befuddled and terrified of social interaction that I have allowed myself to be erased rather than make small-talk in the hallway before a class. The child of two self-made people who have known and overcome a lot of pain, suffering and hard work, is afflicted with a mental illness that makes it a trial just to take basic care of myself.

I am my own victim, in the long run. Everything I do is dominated by fear. I hide myself away. I miss out on things I might enjoy for fear there's the tiniest chance I'll embarrass myself/feel awkward/be rejected. I have created my own loneliness, and from that has stemmed my depression. There's no one to blame but myself. And I can talk about wanting it gone, I can rail against it and swear I'm going to change, but there's no changing the instinct to remain alone. Maybe loneliness breeds loneliness -- it certainly does in my case. I don't fit in anywhere, never have. I've always been on the fringe of everybody else's worlds. I've never really created my own. I wouldn't know how to start. If I went missing, nobody would notice until my parents tried to make their weekly phone call and I didn't pick up. It's so unbelievably depressing and I wish I could change it but I have no idea where to start. I've tried. I've been trying for three years. Not hard enough, probably. I'm not strong enough to face my own fears. I admire the people who do, but I've never been one of them. If I have to choose between fight or flight, I will always pick flight, absolutely every time. Flight into nothingness. Flight into being a ghost. If you're a ghost, nothing can touch you. You can't be hurt. You can't LIVE, but you can't be hurt. Somehow I haven't been able to convince myself that the potential for joy outweighs the potential for pain. Rationally, I know that, but then I wouldn't be in this position if I were rational at all.