I have rocks in my shoes and water steadily rises closer to my airways. My hands struggle against rope, and all you notice is my distress as I sink further into the lake. You’re wondering why I don’t kick my way to the surface as I choke on liquid, because as you know, only I can really save myself. At least, that’s what they tell me.
So I’m utterly confused when I’m on the cold concrete, my knees pulled to my chest; because Depression is the Devil dressed like an angel, who speaks in irritability. Manic Pixie Dream Girl doesn’t visit as often, but this path is no less destructive. My thoughts are racing at 1AM without signs of stopping. As I write these calming words, I can’t help but feel the need to scream that this is not a romantic version of life. These pills are meant to be a relief, but these mood swings are back and I feel broken. I wanted a word to describe how I felt, but I am no closer to knowing my solution than I was two months ago.
I am left in the lake with bystanders shouting escape plans. Their voices mesh into one like an overwhelming symphony.
I wonder who I am.
Why do I react the way I do?
Why do I take risks like some kind of challenge?
Why do I allow depression to haunt me like a nightmare?
Why does this label not satisfy my tortured mind?
My feet are hitting the slimy bottom of the lake. I’m surrounded by darkness and a deafening silence. Bubbles form around my mouth and nose; I’m wondering how to survive. Because medication and therapy were dressed like the three-piece you imagined becoming in your new sanity. Only, life is not the fairytale you imagined. So you live in this limbo between alright and terrified.