Writing gets significantly worse with depression. What kind of an outlet is this supposed to be anyway?

When I slip under I do silly shit. I shit (she reads later and decides not to fix) on the computer and observe people's lives, people I used to know but not that well, from what can be found on the internet. I look at pictures of people and find that they are now brilliant artists, photographers, painters, musicians, famous, popular, beautiful, fashionable, lovable, well liked, happy, depressed in a cool way, cool. I think, shit, I went to high school with them. I was better than them at that when we were both 16, they even thought I was cool, and now they've gone and got good... REALLY good, really COOL good, and I'm even worse than I was then. In fact I haven't done shit in those 4, going on 5, 6, 7, 35, 58 years. Here I am, doing nothing. I am doing a gr. 11 math credit. I have less than a year of University, no high school diploma. I sit at home. I don't even do those little things I thought would make my days worth while. Play violin. Every day. At this rate, I'll be great by my 365th every day play violin. I says. I says two weeks ago. I says two weeks ago since then done nothing but my life shattered by a two day First Aid course. Great. Can't handle First Aid course. Can't handle Art Gallery with a friend. Can't handle being out of house. Can't handle being in of house. Can't handle alone. Can't handle people, make me all kinds of uncomfortable or angry. 

If I were a little Irish leprechaun I wouldn't have to be cool.

But if I were cool... I could be in people's cool photos too. Maybe they could even paint pictures of me. Make me feel beautiful. Make me feel cool.

But there I was standing in the kitchen. Brewing nighty night tea. Dropped my apple on the floor. Took a bite, was gross. Rotting. Couldn't get the taste out of my mouth.

But there I was standing in the kitchen. All I want to do is get married and move to the colonial American McStates Estate lands of tall trees and rich people and big clean houses and have babies and a husband. Here I am wanting to be everything I was taught was a failed woman. Here I am wanting to fail. Here I am failing anyway. 

Electricity takes the path of least resistance, says my First Aid instructor. Here I was am single woman taking charge of career. Take lots of school, be lots of success, hate marriage, hear me roar, how dare you define me by ability to create human life. No, back: Here I was am single young woman, pretty neat really. The adults like me, think I'm pretty clever, think I'm pretty wise. I wear lots of mature colours, not really blending in. Neat independent smart girl. Then, there I went. There I went when those boys in those sweaters peered at me with their endearing eyes. Bless their souls what wonderful sweater wearing beings. I became some sort of monster. Some sort of married monster. Some sort of romantic comedy I don't want you to do dishes, I want you to want to do dishes kind of pink hysterical picket fence lady monster. I just want to be... with a Him. 

There's no going back it seems...

My Him-right-now, he's away right now...

Why do I feel there is no meaning in my life right now...

Or has there been since meeting that first boy in that first sweater...

Or was there before....?

Electricity takes the path of least resistance, says my First Aid instructor. My current ran through him when first I touched him. I don't think I ever wanted a life alone. So am I doomed to hating where I am until I get what I think I want? Good luck getting it. Turns out it's hard to ... get things. you want. 

So I do nothing.

How can one do, when doing has lost all meaning?