Yes, there are those who have it worse than I do, however there's nothing I could do for them when the destructive tide of my own mental illness sweeps me up and awakens my helpless head against the eroding stones of my ruined life. Think about that for a moment. As analogies go, that's nearly just like beating a homeless person to death with a bag full of money. That's not far from the current tone from which society sets its own standards.

Nevertheless, it's not that the world depresses me. It does, but it is not the reason behind my disease. Some individuals are just built wrong. Their biological contraptions are not made to survive or they endure faulty wiring. I guess that the latter is me personally and as a result I probably care more than I need to if I have it in me to care. But depression for one is not just about feeling bad. Most frequently I believe nothing at all besides a constant feeling like I'm being crushed gradually to death.

And the amusing thing about living with depression and anxiety is that what rests at one time, both your brain and the body endure the exact same aching sense of hopelessness and the more you live with it, the tougher it's for messages for back and forth between them both. I'm a zombie.

I'm barely over thirty and I have lived with it since my final years at high school. Until recently there was not much that didn't function. The majority of the time I felt like a warm corpse, wearing down the terrifying novelty of carrying up so much of my mommy's cash, patience, time and space. And then on the better times I felt as though I was twenty five to thirty years old before my period.

Just to give you an concept of what I have lived with as my mid-teens, I've been suicidal on and off; mercifully largely off, in terms of urges. A few days your brain has a voice of its own and your feelings look utterly alien. If you don't do exactly what that voice says, it will look for a way to behave without your collaboration and that's a scary thing - particularly when it shows you just how helpless you can be against it.

Then there are the suicidal days where it is not an impulse or a voice but more or less a sense of exhaustion so good you don't even have the will to rationalise against the irrational. You only sort of shuffle around, accepting that it is not going to end well, and you let it eat you as you have not even the capacity to create choices. You can die and not give a damn and which will be no big loss.

Hearing about people who have it worse does not make me want to fucking grin. If you feel differently, then obviously the wrong guy got sick!

If this account of current events seems disjointed or dispassionate, please let me assure you that this isn't my aim and it surely isn't laziness. However, I wished to tell you about something that happened between me and my sister Eve.

Admittedly it is a tiny weird one, but hey, that's Eve; my lovely human being of a sister!

I could inform you about exactly what made me this way. That might have a complete university research in itself in medicine and psychology, but as a result my immune system became perilously close to non-existent as of late and hospital tests led to the discovery that the same went for most of my other hormones.

I could barely get it up to most of my twenties. Every one of the antidepressants left my behavior pretty unpredictable and at times dangerous, so we had to try to locate another route. Testosterone treatment made me violent too, so gradually I simply slunk back to the same pattern of residing in a darkened corner so not to empty anymore of mum's savings, whatever was left.

Eve didn't just hate to see me like that. She had been fearful. Five years ago among the closest friends, great site (xxxfish.xyz) from the blue, hauled herself into oncoming traffic. That place Eve into a melancholy but the pills worked to her. I was not bitter in any respect. I was thankful that with the mourning process leading around coming from the funeral, she managed to recoup over a matter of weeks. However, in all honesty understanding that she desired me shut and really being able to help her made me feel somewhere nearer to regular for a little while.

All of my life I have only ever cared for Eve so far that I could tell her that I love her and feel that it signifies something. I tell mum the same but - and this may seem strange considering - she is just mommy. We have grown up with a regular of places and times when it was polite to say "love you, mom..."

Together with Eve, I tell her when I feel it and she does the same. We've always been close. Some believe we have always been closer than most siblings, regardless of the fact that we seldom hang out socially (I'm the only person as you can probably imagine).

So I couldn't bear to see her so angry, realizing that there was nothing she can do. But being that I fought urges I didn't need and refused to take, I needed to be brutally honest with her at some stage or another. Her buddy might have been helpless against her struggle, but for whatever the reason, she lost the ball. Not that I phoned her selfish for it. But it would not have been greedy to ask for help. Eve owed nothing.

What mattered to me was that I be there for her at which most other family would continue to keep their space and also to wait for communication to occur rather than to guide her through her mourning. And a part of me wondered, when a friend might have such impact, then what could I've done for her had I took my life?

We spent some three weeks leaning on one another, phasing in and out of awareness during the dark days and bad weather. I let her cry on my shoulder before I was moist with saltwater, before the mourning itself became a lot. Soon enough it was the perfect time to let go and to move on for her sake.

But she was not happy about leaving me behind, as she placed it. I agreed that it wasn't fair that she could recuperate so easily and that I couldn't, but what could we do? We might have been peas in a pod although she was the most perfect one. She said she would do anything for me personally.

Putin let's down on these army supply drops we requested for. So I wasn't going to be a millionaire any time soon. I requested her to quit being so clever and go get a job in KFC so she could bring me chicken each evening. In all honesty, she wouldn't have satisfied the top and cover anyhow, not after I've seen her at a teddy bear onesie.

Eve is five years younger than me and takes a few added pounds, but in all of the appropriate ways. She's the best for cuddles, that I never got enough, until I get into where this story's headed. She's well endowed (F cups I believe) and maintained her coating of puppy fat and left it work to her advantage.

She's a long haired brunette, likes to wear her hair up and retains a light tan throughout the year and she has the sexiest grin and brown eyes which have never been off limits to me personally. I love her dearly and it is always hurt me all the more to know that they're wasted on this stupid illness.

I often feel as though she has to do it for me personally, and worry that she's left feeling that she fails me when her out and proud love for me simply doesn't do the trick. I'm a lousy rap!