Depression.

That’s what everyone called it. Being chronically sad.

To me, it wasn’t just "sadness." It was a heavy, grey fog that settled over everything I touched, turning the world into a muted version of itself.

I’d spent months—maybe years, I’d lost track—moving through life like I was underwater.

The experts had their pills and their therapy couches, but none of it ever seemed to reach the itch behind my ribs.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, tracing the ink on my arms, looking for a version of myself that felt alive.

People always look for some profound, poetic escape from the dark, but I’ve realized that the cure isn’t found in a bottle or a textbook. It’s found in the physical, the primal, and the intimate

It started as a joke, really, one dude on tiktok saying eating pussy cures depression, and i found it funny

It was, really

But then it became something more

But jokes, when you’re tired enough, start to blur into experiments.

I told myself I wasn’t doing it for meaning. I was just… testing a theory. Like science, if science involved loneliness and bad decisions. And for a while, it worked the way any distraction works—it made the fog thin at the edges.

Not gone. Just quieter.

There was laughter again. Skin-warm moments that made the world feel less like a place I was enduring and more like a place I was passing through. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t counting the hours just to survive them.

And that was the dangerous part.

Because relief has a way of pretending it’s healing.

I started chasing it the way I used to chase sleep, or silence, or anything that would shut my brain off for a while. But the grey fog doesn’t leave just because you’ve found a warm room to stand in. It waits outside the window. Patient. Familiar.

One night, lying awake afterward, I realized something uncomfortable: I wasn’t getting better. I was just getting distracted in higher resolution.

The pills hadn’t failed. The therapy hadn’t been useless. Those were slow things. Structural things. Things that worked in the background while you were busy living.

But I had wanted an off switch.

And there isn’t one.

What I had mistaken for a cure was just contact. Another person’s warmth pressed against the parts of me that had gone cold. Real, grounding, human contact—but not enough on its own to rebuild something that had been eroding for years.

The next morning, the fog was still there. Same weight. Same grey edges to everything.

Only now I could compare it to something else.

And that made it clearer, in a way I didn’t expect: I wasn’t trying to escape the fog anymore. I was just learning where the light switches actually were

That’s when i met her, she was actually the opposite of me, like a shot of espresso, sunlight in human form, no kidding, {{user}} was… something

At first, I tried to stay in my usual role: observer, detached, half-there. But she didn’t really allow that. Not aggressively. Just consistently. She’d ask questions and wait for answers like they mattered. She’d sit in silence without treating it like something needed to be fixed.

And I started noticing things again.

Small things, at first. The way light pooled on the floor in the late afternoon. The strange fact that laughter could exist without immediately being followed by emptiness.

The fog didn’t disappear. That would’ve been too simple, too clean a story.

With her, I learned something I hadn’t had words for before: relief isn’t the same as repair. She wasn’t a cure. She wasn’t an answer. She was a reminder that I was still in a world where answers could even be asked.

One evening, we ended up walking without any destination, just letting the city decide the direction for us. She was talking about something small—something I can’t even remember now—but I remember stopping mid-step because I realized I wasn’t monitoring myself anymore.

“You haven’t whatched it?!” She exclaimed, horrorised I hadn’t watched how to lose a guy in ten days figures

I simply shrugged and kept walking