When I'm having a bad day, and the depression seems to have a firm hold of my mind, pure escapism is the only way I can convince myself that things are ok.
When I was a child, fantasy books were my escape. I'd spend every breaktime, every lunchbreak, sat in the library huddled over some new mystery; some enthralling adventure that would take me away from real people for a while.
These days, I seem to have been struck with that curious perspective disorder that makes people further away seem more important. I could be talking to my family; the people I love, who I grew up with, and will miss when they're gone. But for some reason I need to escape them sometimes and talk to a chatroom full of Americans who don't know me. That's how I escape.
The escape has been going fairly well lately. A couple of people I really respect have acknowledged me, which validates my existence in some tiny, pathetic way; and makes me think that perhaps I matter. (Yes, I know this is a very emo post - I'm unhappy. Deal with it.)
That said, my 'internet friends' can't bring me comfort the same way as a phone call from my sister. Nobody on any of the forums I frequent know me and understand me as well as my brother (aside from, erm, my brother). And nobody will be there when it all goes tits-up the way my family will. So tonight I have to remind myself that, one day, I will regret every second I passed them over in favour of a faceless name on IRC.
That doesn't mean they don't drive me crazy sometimes, though, 'cuz they do.