But recently, it came back. Like a thief in the dark, it snuck up on me. Gradually, it crept into my brain, subtly corrupting my perceptions, warping my thoughts, and poisoning my feelings. The end result? I took actions that were utterly inappropriate over problems that did not exists. I was a dick, someone I love was hurt, it was all my fault, and there isn't a damn thing I can do to change that.
When someone gets drunk or high and does crap like that, they, at least, have some say in the matter: they did drugs or had booze. If they're not addicts, then they made a choice to get fucked in the head. If they are addicts, well, maybe they didn't exactly choose to do it, but at least they knew it was coming.
I have no choice about getting depressed, nor do I see it coming. Hell, most of the time, thanks to the way depression works, I don't even know I'm there until I've done something horrible and get called on it.
If I'm going to be held accountable for my actions, then I damned well ought to be able to have a say over my actions! But when the serotonin crashes and everything in my head gets corrupted, I am not in my right mind, I am not, so I do not really have a say in what I think, feel, or do. And yet, the things that I do, and the consequences of them, are just as real, and just as damaging, as if I had done them with malice aforethought and absolute clarity of mind.
Am I the only one who thinks that this is unfair? Am I the only one who feels violated over this? Am I the only one who is so mad about this I can't see straight?
I hate this. I hate what depression does to me. I hate what I do when I get depressed. I hate who I am when I get depressed. I hate that I can't go back and undo the damage I did. I hate it that no matter what kind of drugs or therapy I have, it will always be there, that it will never be gone forever, and there isn't a God-damned thing I can do to change that.