I went straight into my room, lay flat on my bed - rigid with fear - and stared up at the white ceiling. Oh my God. An awfulness was deep inside me, and I couldn’t fight it; forced into submission and taken hostage by it, I could only just lie there, let it wash over me, and let myself be consumed by it. If I cooperate, maybe it won’t stay too long; maybe it’ll let me go free. But if I fight it, it might stay longer just to spite me. So I decided to let The Feeling inhabit me as long as it desired, while I lay still, cautious not to incite it, secretly hoping it would leave me soon and bother someone else, but outwardly, pretending to be its gracious host.
The most discouraging element of what I felt was my inability to understand it. Usually when I was filled with an unpleasant feeling, I could make it go away, or at least tame it, by watching a light-hearted film or reading a good book or listening to a feel-good album. But this feeling was different. I knew one of those distractions could rid me of it. But I knew nothing else. I couldn’t even describe it. Is this depression? Maybe once you ask someone to describe depression, he can’t find the right words. Maybe I’m part of the official club now. I imagined myself in a room full of people where someone in the crowd, also suffering from depression, immediately noticed me - as if he detected the scent of his own kind - walked over, and looked into my eyes. He knew that I had The Feeling inside me because he, too, had The Feeling inside him. He didn’t ask me to talk to about it, because he understood that our type of suffering was ineffable. He only nodded at me, and I nodded back; and then, during our moment of silence, we both shared a sad smile of recognition, knowing that we only had each other in a room filled with people who would never understand us, because they didn’t have The Feeling inside them.
Nick Miller, Isn’t It Pretty To Think So?