Content Notice: Depression and discussion of suicidal ideation.
I’d like Chris Hall’s unit of measurement for depression to be A Thing, a scale from -1 to 1 measured in Marvins, referencing the comically depressed robot from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Marvins are bad to have, meaning 1 would be suicidal.
I think the best I’ve ever been was 0.1 Marvins. Well into my transition, with a loving and supportive partner with a good sense of humour and just the right amount of mean streak to satisfy my kink, a job I enjoyed that paid the bills and then some. Even then, a distant dread, a little devil whispering in my ear that I would lose it all. (Which turned out to be right). It doesn’t help that my metaphorical devil gets help from outside my brain. No shortage of people penning lengthy diatribes about how monstrous I am because I’m queer or trans or poly or kinky. Might as well hand my devil a megaphone and name it after a fake goth.
My childhood was 0.25 Marvins at best. Even during times of happiness, there would be a cloud, a fog that surrounded me at all times. The sun wouldn’t be quite as bright, the colours would not radiate quite as vibrantly, laughter was always short lived. It was pervasive, as if the entirety of my wardrobe had been freshly rained on, 24 hours a day, and 7 days a week.