The Burden of Perfection

It's not easy to be me. An excerpt from the lyrics of Five for Fighting -- Superman. Sounds ridiculous, a tall tale, too good to be true, right?
Well, let me tell you this what, my personal answer for it would be no.

I suffer from depression. Or so I would like to deny. I kept on brainwashing and hypnotizing myself, trying to make my own body and mind believe that this is just a prolonged exposure to demotivating circumstances. Just a happenstance of a surplus of negativity.

But you know the most difficult part of having an extended duration of depressive moods? Being perfect. All my life, I have always been seen as being flawless. A natural genius. A nimble body. Flexibility in all circumstances. Fast and over achiever. My muscles get toned from only a few workouts that spans over days whilst others would need months just to burn that fat out of their bodies. Understanding a foreign concept and theory took me minutes when others would require weeks in order to be able to comprehend just a glimmer of its introduction.

People come flocking to me, asking for advises. I provide and offer consultation. To them, I am that cool older brother who is and will always be there to lend a shoulder and an ear to listen to their problems and help solve them. I am that magic medicine and doctor and shaman who is capable of solving practically anything thrown unto me.

But it's difficult. Especially when I'm exposed to a series of demotivating cases and stories like this. Who should I talk to? Who should I consult? Who do I share my problems with? Nobody. Or, even if there is, it would be the three people of me, myself, and I. People won't even believe that I'm currently suffering from depression. Hell, even I refuse to believe it. I reject that notion, that idea, all the time. I'm perfectly fucking fine, god damn it. I need no therapy, I need no counselling. Fuck those psychologists and their fake ass sharing session, yielding practically zero results. Zero fucks. I got better fucks from watching bestial porn, mind you.

But, ahh, there it is. There's the pride in me restricting me. Yet again. It restraints me from counselling to people. From reaching out for help.

Boy, oh boy, this sure is difficult.

But she saw past all of it, though. Saw through me. Knew my weakness, amidst all my strengths.
"By any chance, are you suffering from depression?"
Fuck. So you knew afterall.