A New Word

I've not made a post in a few weeks. I've found I tend to be terrible at maintaining blogs, journals, diaries, or otherwise, as I typically abandon them after one or two entries. However, this time, I want to try to put a little more effort into creating such entries regularly.

I've learned a new word today. I'm not sure if it's an accepted English word, as I had difficulty finding it in any accredited dictionaries and the top Google search result for it was Urban Dictionary... Nevertheless, I'm adding this particular noun to my vocabulary sheerly because of how apt it is to my present situation and how many individuals I know to whom it may also apply. The word of which I speak is "eccedentesiast," or in plain terms, "one who fakes a smile."

It's an interesting concept: Maintaining the illusion that one is happy in order to avoid causing others unnecessary concern. Humans are a naturally empathetic species. We often strive to understand and share in another's pain so as to attempt to comfort them, if not in action then in company alone. Often times, we cannot help it; it's the natural response to make efforts to console someone in distress. Many eccedentesiasts recognize this, at least unconsciously, and so they hide their own misery so as to avoid burdening others.

I've often caught myself engaging in the practice, even and especially after some substantial emotional turmoil, such as the death of a loved one. Since I've started frequenting public venues as the result of attending college, the first official school I've ever been to, I find myself wearing this mask still more than ever. I greet  people with a smile and laugh at their jokes, regardless of how lame I may actually consider them. I bear no such pretenses at home, however. I'm infamous within my family for rarely smiling within photographs or in the company of others, regardless of how festive the occasion. Since I was thirteen years of age, my grandmother has been concerned that I was depressed. However, as mentioned in my last post, I myself didn't even recognize that until very recently.

I am getting better at maintaining the facade, though. This past Christmas holiday, not four days ago, my parents even managed to grab some photographs of me, with my two siblings, smiling. They've been under a lot of stress and pressure recently. How could I have, with a clear conscience, refused them a simple smile, at the least?

Confession

Though I've striven to deny it for a number of years now, I think it's time I admit to myself this simple fact: I'm depressed.

I can't think of any sane reason for it. I've lived a relatively privileged life. I've never been bullied or gone through serious trauma, emotional or physical. My immediate family is by no means dysfunctional: My mother and father have never had any issues, I have two loving siblings, and there's no want for either attention or emotional support. As we are a middle class family, neither is there any lack of material goods. I work two jobs and just completed my first full semester of college, the latter thanks to a government grant I received. I managed to attain As in all of my courses and am now eligible to receive an invitation to Phi Theta Kappa international honor society! Yet, for all of this, I can no longer deny a growing sense of melancholy.

I suppose I've refused to accept it for this long out of guilt. How could I possibly have so much going for me and yet still be depressed? It just seemed bratty, spoiled, ungrateful... Nevertheless, I feel it, and it's beginning to frighten me.

Not four months ago, the day before the start of the Fall semester at my college, I held a razor blade to my wrist, not for the first time, and very nearly decided to experiment with cutting. I've no clue what nearly drove me to that; I've always held disdain for the act of self mutilation. I've not come nearly so close since, as my school and work loads left me little free time to reminisce. Though now, the semester has ended and my work has slowed down for the winter. I've some time to myself, and the melancholy is returning.

I've done research on cutting in the past and have spoken to cutters on many occasions. I know its lure: The act of sustaining the injury releases endorphins which simulate a "high." It can be as addicting as a drug, and I'd rather not be trapped in that cycle, so I've decided to attempt to distract myself with blogging. Perhaps reading through my own ramblings will give me a glimpse into my psyche, better allowing me to introspect and find my melancholy's root cause. To anyone who should happen to stumble upon this, any advice would be greatly appreciated.