Essentially this is a bit of me rambling about your general awesomeness and how much I'm going to marry you and generally feels, feels everywhere.
Speaking of, I honestly cannot say enough the extent of the emotions this made me feel; it was relatable even to me, who has never suffered from depression but, like any human, has her moments of weakness and sadness and the nothingness that makes the other two seem like fun. It made me feel like Dan. It put me in shoes that were someone else's, but ones I've danced around, similar to ones I've worn and ones I'm wearing.
I have never been depressed, but I have been in the state of only superficially feeling. I'm at a stage in my life where I can look at a room inside of a house, even a shitty one, and think about how beautiful it is because of the rare collision that made everything in it. How the lights only work because of a certain reaction, how I have the world at my fingertips, how all of this has been years in the making. Imagining that as not being beautiful is so immeasurably sad to me.
I can sympathize with this, as I've known so many people close to me who were depressed. Who are depressed. Who don't see life as beautiful. Who don't see life as anything.
I'm sorry that I may never understand the full weight this fic has on other readers, but specifically the weight it has on you. I'm so sorry that you've been in the state of not enjoying the simple, clean concepts in life that make it worth living. I'm sorry that you ever had that robbed from you, and I cannot express that enough.
This fic meant things to me in a manner different than depression. I noted this in an earlier review, as well; his early attitude towards the relationship with Phil. The fear of not giving someone what they deserve because of your own inadequacies. The fear of the end, of losing someone so close. I wanted to cry while reading that. For Dan, but mostly for myself.
I apologize that this section of the review seems so self-serving and so much more about me than the fic, because it really sort of is, but I feel like I can't convey how much this means without relating it to myself.
Anyways, I don't know if you meant for me to comment so much but I did. I hope that's okay. I realize that somewhere it turned into word vomit. Oops.
The first day I properly realised I had depression was also the day I started to get out of it. I looked out the bus window one morning and thought "Wow, the grass looks green today."
The grass hadn't changed colour overnight. It was February in the UK, it was a dull, cold, grey day, but some tiny little thing in me had changed enough that I noticed the grass that morning. That was when I accepted that I really did have a problem, if I wasn't noticing things like this every day.
It's funny - I never expected someone to read this story and come out saying 'well, I haven't been through depression, but here's another aspect of the story with which I can relate'. I sort of forget that there's anything more to this story. Again, I think that comes into the way I view real-life narratives (touched on with "They are complex and real; they’re not just an idea to exist in someone else’s head, except of course they are" and also "Those words should be harder to say, Dan thinks. They trip off Phil’s tongue like he’s said them a thousand times. Perhaps he has, and Dan just hasn’t been listening" - the idea that everyone has their own story, everyone is the centre of their own universe.) Because something else I believe is that everything ties together. People find it hard to compartmentalise their lives. So for me, the whole story is a whole, and I sort of forgot that when people come at it from different angles, they'll see different aspects of it.
Two things you shouldn't feel sorry for: relating the story to yourself (I mean, come on. This whole fic is about me) and commenting lots. I like comments. Comments are good. And speaking of, thank you for all six of them!
It's a strange thing to try and wrap my head around, only seeing things for what they are and not what they could be. Trying to imagine not seeing anything at all is a peculiar feeling.
Relating back one of your other replies, because I'm going to stop spamming your inbox: Regarding the idea that nothing means anything. I've always had that philosophy, always believed that we build our own meanings out of insignificance because people can't handle the idea that what they're doing does not, in fact, matter. I also believe that they're making a mistake. Nothing you do matters. In the grand scheme of things, it never will. Every mistake you make, every heart you break, every time you fuck up in some immense way. None of that matters, because everything only means what you make it mean. And everything else doesn't need to matter. If it affects you, then the impact it has on the world is unimportant. WE are unimportant. We will all die after our stories are done and the universe won't be any better or worse for it. And the thought comforts me. I don't understand the need to make everything more than it is.
Regarding this comment in specific: I think it's part of the human experience, everything we do will relate to someone else in some way. Another thing I find beautiful (has that officially stopped being a word yet?) about life. In fact, it's one of my favorite things about it. However, I wouldn't have been able to relate had you not written a relatable character. It really says something to the credit of your writing that I could empathize with a character so dissimilar to me in situation.
It's also one of my favorite things about words. That one person can look at a string of words and see something vastly different and be affected by it in a way completely irrelevant to the first.
I don't really feel sorry for relating the story to myself. I feel sorry that I can't understand the entirety of the impact it has on you, as the author. Because while every work is essentially a piece of someone, this is one of the rare times when I feel like I've witnessed something greatly intimate by reading. While someone who has never had bulimia can most certainly write about bulimia, they probably won't be able to portray it in a way that feels like someone's entire self being ripped open and laid out for me to see. But I'm seeing it through a dirty lens, not being able to comprehend it on the level of someone else who has been there.
Anyways, thank you for writing this and for making me think about things. <3
Essentially this is a bit of me rambling about your general awesomeness and how much I'm going to marry you and generally feels, feels everywhere.
Speaking of, I honestly cannot say enough the extent of the emotions this made me feel; it was relatable even to me, who has never suffered from depression but, like any human, has her moments of weakness and sadness and the nothingness that makes the other two seem like fun. It made me feel like Dan. It put me in shoes that were someone else's, but ones I've danced around, similar to ones I've worn and ones I'm wearing.
I have never been depressed, but I have been in the state of only superficially feeling. I'm at a stage in my life where I can look at a room inside of a house, even a shitty one, and think about how beautiful it is because of the rare collision that made everything in it. How the lights only work because of a certain reaction, how I have the world at my fingertips, how all of this has been years in the making. Imagining that as not being beautiful is so immeasurably sad to me.
I can sympathize with this, as I've known so many people close to me who were depressed. Who are depressed. Who don't see life as beautiful. Who don't see life as anything.
I'm sorry that I may never understand the full weight this fic has on other readers, but specifically the weight it has on you. I'm so sorry that you've been in the state of not enjoying the simple, clean concepts in life that make it worth living. I'm sorry that you ever had that robbed from you, and I cannot express that enough.
This fic meant things to me in a manner different than depression. I noted this in an earlier review, as well; his early attitude towards the relationship with Phil. The fear of not giving someone what they deserve because of your own inadequacies. The fear of the end, of losing someone so close. I wanted to cry while reading that. For Dan, but mostly for myself.
I apologize that this section of the review seems so self-serving and so much more about me than the fic, because it really sort of is, but I feel like I can't convey how much this means without relating it to myself.
Anyways, I don't know if you meant for me to comment so much but I did. I hope that's okay. I realize that somewhere it turned into word vomit. Oops.
But I look forward to marrying you <3
Reply
The grass hadn't changed colour overnight. It was February in the UK, it was a dull, cold, grey day, but some tiny little thing in me had changed enough that I noticed the grass that morning. That was when I accepted that I really did have a problem, if I wasn't noticing things like this every day.
It's funny - I never expected someone to read this story and come out saying 'well, I haven't been through depression, but here's another aspect of the story with which I can relate'. I sort of forget that there's anything more to this story. Again, I think that comes into the way I view real-life narratives (touched on with "They are complex and real; they’re not just an idea to exist in someone else’s head, except of course they are" and also "Those words should be harder to say, Dan thinks. They trip off Phil’s tongue like he’s said them a thousand times. Perhaps he has, and Dan just hasn’t been listening" - the idea that everyone has their own story, everyone is the centre of their own universe.) Because something else I believe is that everything ties together. People find it hard to compartmentalise their lives. So for me, the whole story is a whole, and I sort of forgot that when people come at it from different angles, they'll see different aspects of it.
Two things you shouldn't feel sorry for: relating the story to yourself (I mean, come on. This whole fic is about me) and commenting lots. I like comments. Comments are good. And speaking of, thank you for all six of them!
Reply
Relating back one of your other replies, because I'm going to stop spamming your inbox: Regarding the idea that nothing means anything. I've always had that philosophy, always believed that we build our own meanings out of insignificance because people can't handle the idea that what they're doing does not, in fact, matter. I also believe that they're making a mistake. Nothing you do matters. In the grand scheme of things, it never will. Every mistake you make, every heart you break, every time you fuck up in some immense way. None of that matters, because everything only means what you make it mean. And everything else doesn't need to matter. If it affects you, then the impact it has on the world is unimportant. WE are unimportant. We will all die after our stories are done and the universe won't be any better or worse for it. And the thought comforts me. I don't understand the need to make everything more than it is.
Regarding this comment in specific: I think it's part of the human experience, everything we do will relate to someone else in some way. Another thing I find beautiful (has that officially stopped being a word yet?) about life. In fact, it's one of my favorite things about it. However, I wouldn't have been able to relate had you not written a relatable character. It really says something to the credit of your writing that I could empathize with a character so dissimilar to me in situation.
It's also one of my favorite things about words. That one person can look at a string of words and see something vastly different and be affected by it in a way completely irrelevant to the first.
I don't really feel sorry for relating the story to myself. I feel sorry that I can't understand the entirety of the impact it has on you, as the author. Because while every work is essentially a piece of someone, this is one of the rare times when I feel like I've witnessed something greatly intimate by reading. While someone who has never had bulimia can most certainly write about bulimia, they probably won't be able to portray it in a way that feels like someone's entire self being ripped open and laid out for me to see. But I'm seeing it through a dirty lens, not being able to comprehend it on the level of someone else who has been there.
Anyways, thank you for writing this and for making me think about things. <3
-Molly
Reply
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