A Love Letter to My Beautiful, Depressed Self

A person sits on a bed while holding a coffee cup that reads “dear life, it’s beautiful here.”
A person sits on a bed while holding a coffee cup that reads “dear life, it’s beautiful here.”
Photo by allison christine on Unsplash

You are one whose insights, interpretations, and expressions of existence hold plenty of merit regardless of how well they gel with the shitty frameworks of value in a society that has normalized labor exploitation, mindless grind culture, and the fetishization of self-destruction.

I know you’re tired. Tired of viewing yourself as on a perpetual journey toward the sole goal of ‘not being depressed’ because, even from a purely pragmatic point of view, it’s not obvious that will be the case, and so-called ‘progress’ with this sort of thing is never linear. And beyond that, you know that if the world were better structured, folks might have an entirely different opinion toward the condition. See, in this dystopian capitalist hellscape, it’s repeatedly reinforced that the optimal human is able-bodied and neurotypical, and we’re conditioned to believe that if we diverge from that, we are of less value.

i write love letters from the void. editor of The Anticapital, bylines @ LEVEL | P.S. I Love You | The Writing Cooperative

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