Depression

Dear Depression,

I think you are getting the best of me.

I don’t feel sad or distraught, depression, like they do in all the movies. I feel empty. You know that moment in an old cartoon where the inside of the characters body gets a hole shot through it. It’s silly, but that‘s how it feels. Empty.

The mornings are getting harder, depression, you’re keeping me awake. He lies next to me, his gentle snores a lullaby, and he’s deep inside dreamland. But my eyes are plastered open, thoughts scraping at my forehead, tearing me from my nightmares.

Thoughts of almost nothing, depression, almost nothing at all. I could count the ways you’re hurting me and keeping me alive. But my blood runs cold and my tears run dry.

Then in the mornings, depression, I can’t stay awake. My alarm peels me from the paradise of nothingness and the clock tears me from potential peace. Another weekday where the pressures of work tear me from my comfortable bed. The first light of day melting my safe cocoon away.

I eventually manage to arise from bed, depression, tearing my bones from the warm sheets. He doesn’t see me struggling and that’s ok, I can keep plotting through on my own. You’re a heavy weight, a burden, a darkness tying me down. But I awake once more and try again, amother day to battle.

The shower is my haven, depression, it wakes me from my slumber. The warm water trickles down my face. It waterboards me, reveals my secrets, makes me think of him. He‘s probably making my lunch now, keeping me whole and healthy.

I manage to pull on a shirt, depression, though my pillow calls my name. The black trousers go on, the shoes are tied and the belt buckle tightened. One day at a time they say, day by day. I skip the moisturiser I can’t feign the effort today, but my teeth are brushed and my hair is tidied.

I tried my hardest at work, depression, I worked hard against your resistance. Sent some emails, got some emails, kept the endless cog of bureaucracy turning. I’m relied upon and reliable and they look to me to work hard.

Sometimes I want to talk to someone, depression, but I don‘t have many friends. You’ve made me scared to open up, so when they ask me how my weekend was I say ‘it was fine’. But my weekend was more than fine; I went hiking with him and our love re-connected again.

When I get home, depression, I find myself magnitised to the sofa. I’m so tired of keeping up the facade you make me keep. He cooks me dinner and the guiilt sets in - couldn’t I at least chop an onion? But I’m tired and the day has taken it’s toll. And his expectations are low.

You’ve bested me again, depression, I thought things were getting better. But the smile I’ve painted on is fading and crumbles into dust. The clown make-up I’ve worn, masquerading the pain is gone. The white make-up has run out.