Depression: A Love Story

Depression is not a day with ice cream, watching Bridget Jones’ Diary

Or a breakup, where everything gets smaller with distance

Depression is not a bad day, it cannot be fixed with a good cry

Depression is not all in your head, it hurts in places you didn’t even know had feeling

Depression is hidden in the jokes, the pauses, the drinks, the late nights, the forced smiles – perfectly rehearsed

Depression is background noise, constant lulling, a numb-nothing laying beneath the surface

It’s nightmares, pulsing headaches, shut doors, songs and bad TV on repeat

It’s a loneliness words can’t commit to, it’s following a routine and then breaking down between

Depression is not an option; it’s a sentence, with bars and barricades and “Don’t come too close” signs

Depression is a daily screaming match: get out of bed, say hello, make small talk, cook a meal – maybe

If sad is a state then depression is a whole fucking continent – landlocked and longing for sea

Wake up and you are consumed by everything but also nothing

Just like fainting from pain, the anxiety is gone as the dull, gray cloud comes to follow you

No more fear, just bed and regret and emptiness and ignoring friends

“I don’t feel well” – it’s not a lie, it’s just not the full story

And you don’t want to tell the full story

Because Depression tells you, frankly, they don’t care to hear it

Depression says, You are not worth this life you’re not even living

And instead of inspiring you to do something new, or make new friends

It tells you, You never will. You never can. You never could.

Depression is late night flashbacks, glazed over by turning up the noise

It redefines Netflix and Chill, on the days you can’t bring yourself to do anything else

It’s hating yourself for being this way, but feeling too tired to turn the page

It’s telling yourself, This is your life now, this is how it feels to be alive and to be you

And that’s all, and get over it.

It’s feeling frustrated that no one seems to understand, or even be worried

It’s 2 a.m., turning over in bed. It’s knowing your exit strategy in case it ever gets too bad

It’s calling your mom and dad all the time because alone in your head is the worst place to be

But having nothing to say and nothing to think.

Depression. It is a blank canvas that you can’t write on. It’s an anger you can’t express. It’s a pill you can’t swallow but need.

I guess, right now, Depression, is me.