I Worry Depression Might Be Right About Me
Depression delights in isolation, and I’m a social butterfly. Depression clips my wings and blames me for failed attempts to get up — to fly away — to feel free.
It begs the question, “What if only I was stronger?”
Depression speaks poorly of me and of everything I’ve ever accomplished. It whispers that I’m nothing; a meaningless existence. On days I have the slightest amount of energy to argue, I can’t find my voice. Depression knows me so well. It is, by far, the most abusive partner I’ve ever shared my bed and secrets with.
The despair feeds the desperation in ways I’m not meant to understand, but feel obligated to accommodate. Depression does not bother itself with insignificant details of my actual life or reality — these facts are irrelevant.
It’s pathetic how much of my worth and confidence can be drained in half a day, ever-so convincing they were never real at all, but rather mirages I’ve been hiding behind to mask this feeling – all of these feelings – and the emptiness in my chest.
What if Depression is right about me?
Without a sense of self, or time, or obligation, the numbness folds itself into the spaces I can’t reach. I forget that I have power here.
I wake up exhausted and Overwhelm finds me brushing my teeth or making actual plans to leave the house. Anxiety arrives moments later and battles with the darkness; leaving me to suffer the agony of defeat as that last step over the threshold becomes too much to withstand and I give up.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll try again.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel better.
Because there’s so much joy here. There’s so much love. Even if I can’t always connect with it; even if I never do. And even if they never understand how desperately I want to be present — truly present — for all the things, perhaps the thought will count.