Guilt for Being

Suffering from Clinical Depression is a little bit like having a narrator with you commenting on your every mood, twisting and distorting the facts until they fit with what this narrator wants them to say, making everything bad, scary, or a source of guilt. Only the narrator is yourself, which makes realising when he’s wrong rather difficult.

My narrator is standing atop a wall, a wall that is tall and thick and strong, this wall encircles me, trapping myself within and my dreams, hopes and desires within. He stands there and, like John Cleese in a mock French accent, laughs at how much of a fool I am, walling myself in and not being able to get out.
It isn’t always this way; sometimes, when he’s distracted, he can be my drive, persuading me to achieve rather than stagnate.

Guilt appears to be one of my main issues. Not guilt for any specific real reason though, just a directionless general guilt, where my mind looks down on me from atop that wall and says “not good enough!”

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