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The melodrama of depression is something Dazai is all too used to. When everything feels so hopeless you can’t be bothered to do anything about it. When the guilt eats away at you, but you’re too numb to feel any of it. When the world feels all too fake— not real. And when every small fantasy of escape seems like paradise, even if it leads to his untimely end.
He’s given up trying to feel better. Why should he bother. Nothing works. If he took pills, the chance of him attempting an overdose is too high— and no psychologist would take that risk. And therapy only worked for a small short while. So short it felt like a dream.
So instead, Dazai has given in. It’s weak and cowardly. It’s full of lies and deception— to everyone and himself. He pretends everything is working out fine. Not even well, just fine. And everyone buys it.
A small part of himself knows that if he genuinely tried, he could end it. All of it. And all this pain and guilt can cease.
But is he ready for it?
There’s a small part of himself who holds the smallest thread of hope in a vice grip. One day things will get better. Eventually, everything will fix itself. He doesn’t want to face the reality— if he wants to get better, to feel better, he has to put in effort. He can’t expect everything to be done for him.
Dazai never learned how to cope. He never learned how to make himself feel better. All he knows how to do is feel pity for himself— then punish himself for feeling it.
It’s a vicious cycle. He himself was a cycle of abuse— just in himself. It never ended.
Dazai saw no end to it.
The thought that he could see genuine, real, tangible light is something so far— he can barely even see it as a possibility. He can pretend all he wants, he can show other people the light, just not himself. The guilt is too much. The hopelessness is too overwhelming. And the ever present numbness is— painful.
Dazai still remembers the twist in Atsushi’s expression as fireworks withered in the sky— beautiful like a dying rose.
“Please don’t joke like that, I can’t handle it.” Is what Atsushi said.
And Dazai couldn’t promise shit. He couldn’t promise anything. No one trusted him— and certainly not himself.
Making empty promises is all too familiar to Dazai, but in that moment it felt all too wrong. He’s used to lying to himself and to others. But Atsushi’s soft tone full of fear was too much responsibility for Dazai. So what did he do?
He ran.
Dazai considers himself good at a lot of things. Running away from anything remotely hard is what he’s best at.
The promise held too much weight.
Atsushi held too much weight in his heart.
He noticed a pattern with the people who have a hold on his love.
He couldn’t hide his vulnerability from Odasaku. By proxy— he couldn’t make any empty promises to the man. It was too weighty, paralyzingly terrifying. Even if Oda wouldn’t hold it against him, it was too much.
He couldn’t mask the truth from Chuuya. He saw through all the bullshit Dazai spouted, even if it fooled everyone else. And every false promise never held any weight, they both knew that. So it never felt like one. But giving Chuuya the real deal, giving him a promise that did hold weight was off the table.
And Atsushi. Every dumb promise Dazai made held the implicit understanding that under it all— everything Dazai said was just a joke. It was all light hearted. So when Atsushi asked him to make a really, heartfelt promise— he couldn’t.
Dazai never could. He could fake promises with everyone else. No matter how much weight they held. But with the people he unequivocally, undoubtedly loved— he couldn’t.
It scared him like nothing else.
His mind drifts to Chuuya, his old partner, and the only time he felt romantic love towards someone. It’s still there. Not as strong as it was before. Dazai isn’t a teenager anymore. But for gods sake, it’s presence will be eternal.
Every small encounter he had with Chuuya was always filled with the implicit knowledge that they still loved each other, but going back to the way things were us off the table.
It hurts every time they talk, every conversation— even if all it is, is violent banter— knowing it’s a love never to be fulfilled. They’re both too unstable— broken even.
And from Chuuya, his mind wanders to Odasaku. His closest friend. He was his closest friend. Maybe the only one he’ll ever have.
The love Dazai has for Oda is deep rooted, different from the love he shared with Chuuya, and different from the familial love he directs towards Atsushi— but love nonetheless.
It was just as strong now as it was all those years before. Odasaku’s influence could still be felt over him. He might be the reason why that thread of hope is still tightly clutched somewhere in his mind.
Dazai can’t even sigh, his thoughts are suffocating. His feeling are too complex— even for him. Even if he understands the basic concept of the love he feels, the very thin surface of every emotion— the complexities are terrifying. He doesn’t dwell on trying to understand himself anymore, he’s learned the hard way that all it does is lead to even more— and even worse pain.
He knows people care about him. Atsushi, Odasaku, and even Chuuya— as vehemently he denies it— love him back, just as much as he does to them.
But that’s not a cure.
It’s not a cypher for his emotions. His guilt.
Being numb has its pros— he no longer cares. Even though he so desperately wants to. He can’t bring himself to put in any effort to change.
All he can do is pretend and hope for the best.
Or maybe he could try to fall of a building, or a plane, that’ll be a sure fire cure. Wouldn’t it?