I don't think I'm depressed.

I think what my problem is is that when I'm bored, I try to find a reason why. Or, to fill in the empty spaces, I create an emotion that's strong enough to entertain my mind. I can't create my own happiness. I'm just not an optimistic person.

But depression is easy to make. Just get real sad, wallow in self-pity, and contemplate why life sucks. See? Easy.

But is the fact that it is so easy for me a sign that I am actually depressed? Or is it a sign that I'm just really pathetic and need to stop?

Sometimes, I wish I was still on my anti-depressants so that I can be social and alive again.

But then again, I wish I would just stop being so fucking anti-social and get out there.

I also noticed something else. My writing (poetry, specifically) is better when I'm experiencing some strong emotion. Be it anger, pain, depression, happiness, love, fear... But just some kind of emotion. Boredom is almost a lack of emotions, in a way. I can't write poems out of boredom. They just ramble and mean nothing. It's when I have something to say because of some emotion that my writing is really prosperous.

Sometimes, to write poetry, I think I make myself depressed. Or, by writing, I open a closed wound. Just for the sake of pumping out a decent poem.

If I went out and experienced life more, I'd have more to write about without opening closed wounds. There are some wounds that are healed enough where they can't open up again. Ethan and Vic are two examples. But they're healed over completely. Vic has barely left a scar. Ethan will be there, maybe forever. But they just can't be opened, thankfully. Lazar is probably all healed over, too. I don't think he'll really even scar, either. That was short-lived, but pretty intense. I'm not sure if I ever cut over Ethan. (I was also less alone and on anti-depressants for parts of it.)

But is this whole making-myself-depressed-to-write-better a problem? I think so.

That, and the fact that I live in a fantasy. Most of my time is spent daydreaming of a better life, rather than going out and making a better one. I need help.

As my father would say, there's not a psychiatrist smart enough to help me.

Or, as a joke, a bottle of cyanide will help. Help him get rid of his headache (me), anyways. Oh, father of mine...