Deception

Depression is a smile

Depression is a laugh

Depression is a kind word

Depression is a funny joke

Depression is loud and obnoxious

Depression looks like happiness.

Depression is the person that you never suspect.

Depression is the person who has it all.

Depression is deception.

Depression is cruel.

Depression doesn’t care who you are.

Depression doesn’t care what your life is like.

Depression doesn’t care how hard you try.

Depression. Doesn’t. Care.

It deceives and it hurts. But it doesn’t care.

Depression puts this empty pain in your chest that makes you want to rip your chest apart to find the problem and cry when you realize you can’t.

Depression puts you on your knees in agony and makes you wish you didn’t exist.

Depression makes you believe that the world would be better without you.

Depression kills you from the inside out and you don’t see it coming until it’s too late.

Depression consumes you and changes you until you don’t recognize the face looking back in the mirror.

Depression breaks your heart and mind and then stays behind to watch as you attempt with everything left inside you to pick up the pieces and rebuild yourself.

Depression laughs as you fail over and over again.

Depression breaks your soul.

Depression is depression.

Depression is not “feeling sad”

Depression is not “just a bad day”

Depression is not “being ungrateful”

Depression is not just a single feeling.

Depression is not just mental.

Depression is not fake.

Depression has plagued me for years now.

I’m beginning to feel like it will never truly leave me.

I’ve felt it sit in the corner of my mind and wait for me to lower my guard and then laugh when I break once again.

Depression has broken me in such a way that when I look in the mirror, I don’t understand who is looking back.

Depression killed the old me.

Depression took my happiness away and left me with a shell of my former self.

Depression controlled me for so long, and it wants me back.

I feel it in the back of my mind, watching and waiting.

I feel it get excited when I get comfortable, because that’s the best time to strike.

I feel it grin maniacally when I begin to stumble, when I begin to fall down the steep hill I’ve been climbing.

Because the pit beneath me is deeper than before and now I can’t climb anymore.

I feel it when I get tired.

It knows what’s coming.

It knows that soon it will have me again.

It knows that alone, I can’t fight it.

Depression convinced the world it wasn’t real.

And that’s why, even after all this time with it, it terrifies me.

Because people around you don’t truly see it until it’s a gravestone staring up at them.

And then it’s questions of how someone could possibly do something like this when they have so much.

And depression sits in its corner and grins, because it has the world convinced that it isn’t real.

It has the world convinced that it’s a gray cloud overhead and a somber expression.

It has the world convinced that it doesn’t hide behind the happy smile and contagious laugh.