There I am in younger days, stargazing,
Painting picture perfect maps
Of how my life and love would be.
Not counting the unmarked paths of misdirection
My compass, faith in love’s perfection.
I missed a million miles of road I should have seen.
Perhaps the most corrosive aspect of long-term depression is that, as time passes, I feel the additional pressure of time wasted. Almost half of my life has been eaten up by this miasma of thought— bereft of hope or inspiration. And the longer it goes, the more I think that, even if I were to recover tomorrow I have lost what for most people is the most productive time in their lives. My twenties were stolen from me; my thirties are almost gone, and every second that passes is another that I will never have again. Today I remain childless, and in a failing marriage. My entire adult life has been consumed by this amorphous beast. I want to grab it by the throat. Stab it through the heart. Crush the life out of it. But what am I grasping at? My own long term failures. My inability to live a life worth living.
I can remember a time when I was happy, but the memory fades. Spend enough time trying to forget who you are, and you lose the ability to remember much else.