When the Levee Breaks.

Okay, I would like to talk about a topic near and dear to my heart, though what don't I talk about on my blog that isn't near and dear to my heart?
Anyways, onto the topic of today: Faking depression.
I had to see the school counselor somewhere around once every one or two weeks in freshman year because she firmly believed that a recent house move I had had would lead to some self-destructive tendencies and she was right. But I refused to admit I had a problem, even though I fell before my carnal and violent desires.
And to this day, even though I've stopped seeing her, I still struggle with waking up and getting out of bed. I hate going out and seeing people. I just want to spend all day at home in bed with the lights off and my laptop playing endless movies on Netflix, until they all blur into a haze of color lights.
That is why I hate people who claim to have depression. I wish I didn't. I really, really wish I didn't have it and it makes me really angry that people want it. There is nothing glorious in suffering, there is no honor in hurting yourself. There is no spark in a life with no passion.
And seeing people being like "LoL I cutzz meself so hard and mii deprezzion is so bad it herts me!!" just makes me so indescribably angry.
Especially when you quite obviously have no idea what depression is.
Depression isn't feeling down on yourself for a couple of days because you got a shitty test score or it's getting colder outside.
Depression, for me at least, is about living knowing that it would be better if you never left the house or even if you never even existed. It's about knowing that I'm nothing more than an annoyance to everyone around me. It's about hating people and envying them. It's about endless sleepless nights and cutting and migraines and lying and starving and crying and hating everything and anything, just because it hurts less to hate than to love.
I suggest you think long and hard before claiming to have any kind of mental disorder.