The Problemm
But the problem lay not so much in the problem itself but in the problems that he felt about his depression. It wasn’t just that he was depressed, it was that he was therefore depressing, towards himself and all those around him. Sucking the life out of every happy moment, projecting an arcing aurora of negative energy in a kind of reverse feng-shui as he sulked and skulked about in the corners of rooms
His friends tried to include him as best they could, but this only made him feel more depressed, because they were the ones making the effort to drag this morbid, succourless husk out of his own little world, when it was him who should be making the effort. Why should they have to put up with him, me, he thought, and though they would eventually give up the ghost, leaving him content that they no longer felt him burdening them, he would arrive home to contemplate with disdain the way in which he felt left out, out of touch, disconnected, misunderstood.
Humour used to be a good defensive mechanism, but as soon as he had become aware it of being a defense mechanism he no longer felt comfortable using it. Better to face up to the facts than employ a deflective irony. But with nothing with which to deflect, and a now acute awareness that an honesty about troubles would only be a burden upon the clearly happy and content people around him, he could only remain gravely silent, a furrowed brow christening his chastened pout.
And so he would remain, until.
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