It’s a strange thing to have depression. That’s it, no funky causality between the color of the shirt of the guy at subway or anything. You feel heavy all the time. Like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. You may have days where the weight is lifted.
My good says are good. But on my bad days I work extra hard to make sure no one notices I’m struggling. On the bad days I am 68% more likely to go the extra mile painting my nails and making myself pretty just to try to feel alive.
“The ruin of me will be the birth of me and all that was chaos won’t have been in vain”
That’s what makes depression or in my case, manic depression, so dangerous. There are days I don’t want to eat. Or go outside. Or talk to people.
There are days when I consider things that scare myself on the other days. This is the crazy part, I can hide all those parts of me away for the most part so the less able of the generations don’t have to deal with it.
There are days when my self talk is all positive and upbeat, then the next hour I’m telling myself how stupid, weak and inferior I am because I can’t climb Mount Kilimanjaro.
“Stay out of your goddamn head”
This life spans the gap between one thing to the next, and I’m working to relearn self love. It’ll take time, but it’ll work out. Eventually.
“Being able to survive this pain doesn’t ever mean it was okay. ”