WHAT IT’S LIKE
Depression is not like anything. Words are symbols we use to communicate things, but their meaning is only distantly related to reality. Nothing is like anything. Everything is. Depression is knowing that.
It is sitting at the kitchen table at two in the morning, unable to sleep for the fifth night in a row and wondering how you can get out from under life without hurting the people you love. Depression is knowing for a fact they’re delusional in loving you, being unable to deny that they do, and hating yourself for fooling them. Depression is feeling so bad about yourself you wish you didn’t exist, and being convinced that your existence is a terrible cosmic mistake. It is hitting that wall, knowing there’s nothing you can do short of killing yourself.
Depression is walking the neighborhood in the night, relieved there are no streetlights because if someone sees you and asks what’s wrong, you won’t be able to understand them. It’s forgetting how to speak, when all you can do is feel. It’s walking like a drunk, but not being drunk, just dizzy with despair that nothing short of a miracle can change. It’s knowing miracles aren’t real.
Depression is obsession, but knowing that the one great fix will always be out of reach. It is being separated from the herd, trapped behind a fence created by self-doubt, self-loathing, and the absolute conviction that there’s nothing between you and the black sky, not even air.
Depression is falling apart before strangers, and trying to explain it away. It’s too much consciousness and never a break. It’s a razor’s edge of your own making, and the compulsion to flay yourself to the bone, over and over again.
It’s not understanding how the rest of them can do it; and damning yourself for being weak.
It’s handing yourself over to anybody who will take you, then hating them for being fools.
It’s a great wave spinning you round, pounding you again and again into sand so compact and universal, you’d give anything to be hurled against the rocks just once.
It’s the bottom dropping out, and a never ending freefall.
When you’re in it, it’s forever.
When it’s over, the mere act of brushing your teeth, and finding such an act is no longer a struggle, is sheer Nirvana.
Depression is not like anything. Words are symbols we use to communicate things, but their meaning is only distantly related to reality. Nothing is like anything. Everything is. Depression is knowing that.
It is sitting at the kitchen table at two in the morning, unable to sleep for the fifth night in a row and wondering how you can get out from under life without hurting the people you love. Depression is knowing for a fact they’re delusional in loving you, being unable to deny that they do, and hating yourself for fooling them. Depression is feeling so bad about yourself you wish you didn’t exist, and being convinced that your existence is a terrible cosmic mistake. It is hitting that wall, knowing there’s nothing you can do short of killing yourself.
Depression is walking the neighborhood in the night, relieved there are no streetlights because if someone sees you and asks what’s wrong, you won’t be able to understand them. It’s forgetting how to speak, when all you can do is feel. It’s walking like a drunk, but not being drunk, just dizzy with despair that nothing short of a miracle can change. It’s knowing miracles aren’t real.
Depression is obsession, but knowing that the one great fix will always be out of reach. It is being separated from the herd, trapped behind a fence created by self-doubt, self-loathing, and the absolute conviction that there’s nothing between you and the black sky, not even air.
Depression is falling apart before strangers, and trying to explain it away. It’s too much consciousness and never a break. It’s a razor’s edge of your own making, and the compulsion to flay yourself to the bone, over and over again.
It’s not understanding how the rest of them can do it; and damning yourself for being weak.
It’s handing yourself over to anybody who will take you, then hating them for being fools.
It’s a great wave spinning you round, pounding you again and again into sand so compact and universal, you’d give anything to be hurled against the rocks just once.
It’s the bottom dropping out, and a never ending freefall.
When you’re in it, it’s forever.
When it’s over, the mere act of brushing your teeth, and finding such an act is no longer a struggle, is sheer Nirvana.
Comments