Ten years ago, give or take, I was in one of those dark places you find yourself in from time to time. Looking back now I can say pretty confidently I must have been depressed. Clinically. Who else scars themselves for kicks besides the odd Batman villain? I'd come to a realization; I had pretty much wasted my life up until that point. I was financially in the toilet, I was in a relationship with a wicked garbage person that I had to end, and most people I knew were pretty keen on avoiding me. If Scarlett Johansson's Ghost In The Machine could become a person in all its unlovable glory, it would have been me.
You probably have seen more than your share of PSAs and helpful social media posts about depression -- who to call, help you can get, and so on. But most of those things avoid the separate issue of you not wanting any of it. I didn't want anyone's help. I didn't even think at the time I was depressed and whatever was going on I sure as s**t didn't need to talk about it with a stranger, a friend, or a self-help book. Mostly I wanted sweet, room-temperature beers I couldn't be arsed to put in the fridge. I didn't know if I needed help and was pretty convinced I could manage on my own. And I can't help but think I probably wasn't the only person in this situation.
My "therapist" certainly agreed with me.