Depression makes everything pass through me. Or at least, everything that could give me even the remotest form of pleasure or comfort. Like I'm full of holes.
I am ashamed to say that during my senior year in High School, I could be counted among the ranks of a judgmental bystander to someone who was mentally ill.
What I had not learned yet, was the fact that when someone does something for me (in love, mind you), it doesn't mean they're saying I am unable to do it, but it's rather about me allowing them to gift me with something.