Maybe I've gone mad

Sometimes you have to take life with a pinch of salt. But sometimes you think, "Fuck the fucking salt, you fucker. I want to be fucking upset for a bit. Fuck off."
I don't want pity, or anything else. I just want to retreat into my mind, write shitty poetry and draw crap pictures. It's funny how when I think I'm getting better, even just a little bit, something pulls me back and slaps me in the face. And each time it's like it's going "Haha! Fuck you! Gotcha!" This, my dears, is my loving friend, Depression.

Depression has a twin. And Depression's twin is called Crying. And those two, they have a cousin. Their cousin is called Self Harm. But there are people in the world who can beat the shit out of that family that invade my brain when I don't have the strength to.

Therapists, sure, they're okay. But pets are better. You can talk and talk and talk and not once do they stop you, push up their glasses and go "Now, how do you feel about that?" They just look at you and nuzzle you like, "So, can I have food?" Kinda like when Emily Fitch told Thomas she was gay, and he just went "Shall we get a taxi?"
Everyone needs a Thomas. Or a pet. Better than therapists most of the time.

Have I gone mad? Am I insane? Do I care?...