Perhaps the worst facet of depression is that we know how blissful happiness was and we crave to have it back. Perhaps the nagging thought in the back of your head that is stopping you from being completely happy is a longing for sadness. The comfort of depression. When you’re unhappy you have nothing to live for and nothing to lose. You know that things can’t possibly get worse and that your life will either improve or continue on its straight line to oblivion. Knowing that there’s no more depth to fall is complete freedom.

When you’re smiling, there’s always the knowledge knocking that the grin could end at any moment. So instead of enjoying it, you apply yourself and try to prolong the moment, never stopping to absorb it.

Really, depression is just a safety precaution we use to prevent ourselves from being hurt.

Tonight I will lucid dream, I thought as I lay back on Damo’s foldout couch preparing for sleep. All day I’d been using techniques I’d learnt from various websites ages ago to try and induce a lucid dream. I’d written the words “HOW DID I GET HERE?” on my left hand and each time I’d arrived at a new place I’d read it and recount the last three things I’d done. The trick is to turn it into a routine and then when you arrive somewhere in a dream, you will look at your palm and one of two things will happen. You’ll either look and see nothing or the writing will be there and you’ll be unable to recall the actions that led you to where you are, because there were none. Either way will induce lucidity. And then you’ll be free to do anything you wish.

Tonight I will lucid dream, I repeated over and over in my mind, hoping to continue the thought until I slept, so it would be the last one in my consciousness as I drift away. The first thought of my mind in the dreamworld.

And then I awoke to morning. Damo’s lounge room.

Is there something wrong when you can barely remember going to bed, but your dreams are so vivid they could have been reality?

What does it mean when you’re dreaming about going to sleep and trying to dream?

Just as you can be addicted to depression, so can you be to pain. Since seeing Katya at the Botanical Gardens, I’d been trying to see her as often as humanly possible, I remembered. We’d been meeting up in afternoons mostly and spending time together until dark. Whenever Katya was with me, I was defined by bliss. The lights of the heavens shone down on me and warmed my core with their glow. When Katya was away, I was in agony. My heart ached and I longed to hold her, to speak to her, to be near her. Mostly when she wasn’t around me she was with her friend Jessie. I’d still yet to meet Jessie and was growing increasingly jealous of her with each passing day. And when I was alone, dire thoughts refused to desist. I’d find a way to discover that Katya actually felt nothing for me or that she’d cheated on me or whatever it was that would make me hurt and drive me crazy.

Problem was, with Katya I was smiling, I was perfectly harmonious. In this relationship there was no safety blanket. When it ended, it would end me, I knew. And alone, these thoughts continued to surface. I’d lose myself in the scenario of a breakup and each time I did the only way to stop the hurting would become completely clear to me. Suicide. Without Katya, my ability to cope with life would simply end. Without Katya, living was painful. Every warm has its freezing cold. And maybe the thoughts derived from a subconscious need to be unhappy. To lose myself in the comfort of depression. It’s better to be melancholy and have your life bottomed out than to always be at risk of falling.

Awake on Damo’s foldout couch, the light of morning seeping in through the blinds, I lay and went over everything I could remember from my dream. Not only the thoughts I’d been thinking, but also the memories that I recalled. Memories of a whole day created by my consciousness for a dream. If your mind can create memories for your dreams, what’s to stop it doing the same in reality?

As I attempted to recall, there was a knock on the door. I wished whoever it was away as I continued to recount imagined events. Though the knocking continued, impeding my thought processes. Raising and turning my head slightly, I saw standing at the door Mr. Salinger. Frustration pulsed through me as I realised I’d have to get up and answer. Slowly I got to my feet and grabbed a shirt to put on from the crate beside my bed. Clothing myself as I went to the door, I could feel memories of the dream quickly slipping away. Evaporating into nothing. I twisted the handle and opened the dark house to light and Salinger.

“Hi Owen.” He said and it was clear he was a bit nervous to be visiting me at home this early. How he knew I was staying at Damo’s was I had to inform the University about my change in addresses.

“Hey.” I replied, wiping the crust out of my eyes. After a moments silence, he asked if he may come in. I said yes and led him to the kitchen to sit at the table.

Lately I’d been going to class, ever since Damo’s spiel, I guess. What I’d been doing to avoid writing was drawing. I’d been bringing in a scrapbook and just doodling until the end of class. I’d been completely avoiding speak to Salinger in class, closing myself off from him until he didn’t exist. Drawing to numb thought, I was creating a fictional existence to deny my own. Anything to forget writing. That was what Salinger’s visit was about.

“You’ve been coming to sessions, which is an improvement, but it’s pointless if you don’t participate. I can’t help you if you just close yourself off from everything.” An analysis of self I’d thought only capable of me before he’d spoken the words. Since when had he been so psychoanalytical? I wondered.

“I know.” I echoed his sentiments. His words were completely true, but he didn’t know what I was dealing with. If anyone had the right to close themselves and hide, it was me, I thought. The thing about depression is that you’re always certain it’s your own and that no one has ever felt like this before. If we adapt ourselves to suit different situations, if we uniform ourselves to fit in, isn’t it possible that we depress ourselves to become individuals? Every vain attempt to differentiate ourselves from the pack just makes us more similar than ever. In the end it’s all useless. Differences don’t matter when you’re dead and buried.

A weird sense of De ja vu crept into my mind as our conversation continued. A sense that led to disbelief when Salinger uttered the words: I want to talk about your notebook.

My reactions were paralyzed as his words formed.

“You haven’t been bringing it with you to sessions. We haven’t discussed the notes you were writing. What happened to rewriting your memories?”

I was searching for an explanation. Anything to bring him off the trail and to deny reflection. Only through introspection can the truth ever be realised and the last thing I needed at that moment was honesty. The De ja vu was still rampant when he continued.

“Owen, the best advice I can give you is to read your notebook. And to write in it. Until you do that, nothing will be achieved and you’ll continue on this line.”

Mostly, people are too scared to open themselves up to happiness.

My reactions still paralyzed, I watched as Salinger gave me the most serious, heartfelt look I’d seen from him ever and left. I remained seated. Thinking. Reflecting. Doing what I promised myself I wouldn’t. You can convince yourself of anything, but it will never change reality. The truth will always be the truth.

As I heard the door shut, my mind was awoken from its self induced coma. Slowly I found myself folding the couch. I found myself fishing the notebook out from under. Slowly, I found myself opening to book to my handwritten pages. Quickly, I found myself going insane.

More words had appeared. Somehow. More unwritten handwritten letters had manifested. With so many thoughts filling my head, I was unable to think. Just read. “When you’re shrouded in darkness, time has no meaning.” All throughout were thoughts I’d had, things I’d done. Flicking through pages, reading over my past, the one thought that rose above all others and entered my mind was that nowhere in these pages did anyone but myself or Damo have a name. Salinger was “the teacher” and weirdest of all, Katya was “Angel”. Another thought rose and I flicked to the front page, the title sitting there above the beginning of my story. The title: My Angel.

Weirder than all though, words which paralyzed my reactions again. Words scrambled in large writing on the cardboard back of the front page. Words that sent me out of myself.

“NONE OF THIS IS REAL.”