At some point I lost my life but didn’t die. My life walked out on me in the middle of the night.
If there were a term for my condition, it would be a combination of the phrases here and there and neither here nor there. In the end I’m left without my life, yet “alive” enough to watch my life go on without me.
At some point either my life will fall back to me or I will catch up to my life. At some point I will question my life. Is my life happier without me? Who’s in charge of my life?
This infernal monologue, this self-inflicted doom: this is depression. This is me.