Depression

Depression is drowning. I open my mouth to scream, yet no sound escapes me. Water floods my lungs and burns my chest. Every cell in my body is screaming at me with the instinctive need to take a breath, but there is nothing to inhale but water. Depression is suffocating. I try and escape, but which direction will bring me to safety? I reach for something, anything, that will pull me out from the water and allow me to breathe. I find nothing. I am surrounded by people, all of them blurred and distorted by water. They call to me, voices muted; muffled. I can’t make out the words. I hope and pray that someone will reach into the water and drag me out, but the weight of the water forces me further and further, deeper and deeper.

Depression is numbing. No motivation. No inspiration. No reason. Simple tasks become mountainous chores, and most tasks are ignored completely. Depression is dirty. I have grease in my hair, and oil on my skin. My bedroom floor is littered with clothes. My room is decorated with half empty glasses and half eaten plates. A pizza crust from a pizza that I can’t remember eating is speckled with green. I sort through my memories, trying to remember, but I can’t. Monday blends into Tuesday, then Wednesday, and I’m still in bed. Time escapes me but still each second carries the weight of an hour. Life is filmed in slow motion. Shackles adorn my wrists and ankles, and the weight of them makes minuscule movements feel impossible. I can’t concentrate enough to remember what I’m supposed to concentrate on.


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