I know that I'm part of reality. I know that I've been living a life and affecting things for - as of today - twenty-one and a half years. However, when I experience derealisation, there's a part of my mind that doesn't.
"I've never had the kind of friendship that is plastered all over social media, and I've never had one where I felt like the balance was 50/50."
"It hurt. It would sting horribly for days, like an open wound, and yet I'd still find myself doing it despite the swelling having not gone down from the previous time."
I thought I had written the story in a very mature way. But, when I was editing and rewriting it over the next few years, I could definitely tell that it had been written by somebody who did not fully understand the topic they were writing about.
It's a common theme that people who haven't experienced depression don't understand it, and that's okay.
It's bright outside on the other side of the glass. It's very bright. Sunlight is bouncing off multiple cars, the gravel is bone dry. There's a soft breeze rustling the trees. It's quiet, with only a few cars passing by on occasion.