I love you, I’m sorry.
Today, I caught up with an old friend. We hadn’t seen each other since graduation, and it was strangely comforting to see how some things had changed — he was taller now, more mature in his demeanour — yet some things hadn’t. He still had that familiar warmth that made high school feel a little less daunting. Our conversation drifted from topic to topic until we somehow landed on the reasons why we would never date each other. He mentioned, almost offhandedly, that his father had always warned him against dating someone with a mental illness, insisting it was just as draining as being ill yourself.
I knew he didn’t mean it as an attack; it wasn’t personal. But still, the words stung, sinking deeper than I cared to admit. It wasn’t the rejection that disheartened me but the underlying reminder of a harsh reality I’ve tried to ignore: the fear that I might never find someone who can love me, or that I can love without burdening them. His words echoed a truth I’ve often felt but rarely voiced — that loving someone like me comes with a heavy price.
I understand where he was coming from. Loving someone with depression is not an easy task. It’s like living with a storm that’s always on the horizon, never knowing when it will hit or how severe it will be. Most people have no idea how emotionally draining it is to care for someone who is constantly battling their own mind. And as much as I hate to admit it, I know I’m not an easy person to love. I’m aware of the toll it takes, and the weight it places on the shoulders of those who try to care for me. The truth is, I feel like a burden, a constant source of worry, and the thought of inflicting that pain on someone else is often unbearable.
I used to believe that if I just tried hard enough — if I could maintain some semblance of consistency — my depression would eventually disappear. I clung to the idea that I could somehow become someone worthy of love, someone who could be loved without strings attached, without guilt, without fear. But anyone who has lived with depression knows that it doesn’t simply vanish with time or effort. It’s not a phase or a mood you can snap out of; it’s a constant, an uninvited guest that overstays its welcome.
I know the universe is indifferent, that it doesn’t pick favourites or dole out fairness in equal measure. I am one person among 8 billion, insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But there are days when it feels unbearably unfair. Most days, I can accept it, and resign myself to the ebb and flow of my emotions. But on other days, it feels like I’m drowning, gasping for air in a world that seems to move effortlessly while I struggle just to stay afloat.
Someone will see me, not just for my broken parts, but for everything else I am trying to be, right? Because in the end, isn’t that what we all want? To be seen, to be loved, even when we are not easy to love?
