The moment you realize you’ve shifted from sadness to depression is not a pleasant one. Or perhaps what’s worse is being so familiar with depression that you’re aware of the shift and can watch it occur in yourself with an almost expert eye.
Yet, in spite of the familiarity, the pain of it still hits you like a ton of bricks. The constant panic attacks, the inability to hold down a conversation (a skill you were terrible at to begin with) or even leave the house some days, the violent crying that lasts for several hours for no known reason. And, of course, still having no clue what to do about any of it.
You use to find it helpful to talk it out, either speaking or in obnoxiously long emails. But those very few people that you trusted with such words have left you in the last year or so. You and your words became a burden on them that was too great, and they no longer wanted either in their lives.
So now you’re alone. But that’s what you’ve always preffered, wasn’t it?
Well, congratulations then. You have only a few friends left. Most you haven’t seen in months or years. That’s probably for the best though. You’re a terrible friend, after all. Though you do see some of them regularly, you admittedly spend more time with their children than them. The conversations and the words don’t matter to kids. Your failure, your brokenness, your emptiness is of no consequence to them. And their joy and innocence brings a rare smile to your hopeless heart.
Some days that’s enough. On the others, you survive.
You sleep because sleeping hurts less than living.
You take the pills that numb too much and too little all at once.
You watch the hour change, the day, the week.
You cry at the laundry pile.
You put on a smile when she bursts in the room, because the only thing worse than feeling this way is her response to knowing you’re feeling this way. Everyone gets sad, just get over it. It plays on a loop in your mind, even though you know better.
You listen to music, but when the album ends you can’t remember hearing any of the songs.
You eat one meal a day instead of three. You don’t know why.
You write. You spend hours, if not days, considering why you’ve written it, if you’ll post it and why. You cry, embarrassed that you look like you’re begging for attention. Are you?
No, you decide, because the tears of embarrassment that fall when attention is received are greater than the first. You’ve been trained to be ashamed, after all.
But you post anyway. You post because “just get over it” and “everyone gets sad” haunt you the way they do. The way they shouldn’t.
You post because it’s all you have left.