When I am depressed, the voice in my head tells me I’m a failure. Completely worthless. That life is not worth living.
My vision of myself distorts completely, like an image in a fun house mirror. I am me, yes, but all I can see is the ugliest, most loathsome version of myself.
It’s hard to imagine how a person like the great, the beloved, the outstanding Robin Williams could do anything but feel the utmost pride in himself, his work, his achievements, his greatness.
But depressive thoughts are not rational or real or true.
The next time I am in the midst of a depression, I will think of Robin Williams, of David Foster Wallace, Virginia Woolf and so many others. I will tell myself: right now, you are not capable of judging your own self-worth. You’re trapped in the darkness, looking at a mirror made of lies.