Why Depression is Startling

When you’re feeling it – it isn’t startling.

Nothing is startling.

 

Ha! I finally know and understand the definition of apathy.

Unrelated to apathy –

 

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I feel like some invisible disease has punctured my skin, slithered in, and has found a way to live inside me, parasitically changing me, holding me in a strange in-between, a madness, a muted, a roaring duality of pain and nothingness.

Trapping me from within, trying to squeeze the breath out of me.

It’s like a living entity is sitting on my chest; squeezing my heart in a fist of silver and hardness, harshness, imbuing it with sharpened flecks of poison; languishing in my gut, knotting me into coils and pressured twists; cracks breaking through the veneer.

And how am I still alive?

Am I?

If I barely swim to the surface of myself.

Sometimes this is all I have to give.

 

The madness has to come out sometime.

And how blessed am I? Writing gives me a way to breathe.

If only I’ll stop trying to control it. It isn’t always going to be pretty; it’s coming from within me. Sometimes giving the disease swarming inside me, leaching to my bones, and scratching at my soul with metallic nails – words, a voice, helps me.

Instead of leaching inwards, only swirling inside my rib cage, I can spill it onto the page and let it live there.

It may be a little worrisome to those who have never dealt with depression (depression and feeling sad are not the same thing, by the way). Perhaps it’s a little depressing to read for some.

But for me, it’s like expelling poison.

A saving grace.

That, is why I write.

How maddeningly beautiful, how simply poised I find it that both poison and the cure live inside me.

 

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