Tag Archives: depression

This Is Where It Starts

The first time I tried to explain my depression to family, I was sitting on my bed, hot tears streaming down my face. I wasn’t sad – I was angry.

“I’ve been depressed before…”

But this was different than your depression. Where you overcame your constant sorrow, mine was debilitating and daily functions became a problem. It was like trying to outrun a boulder as it tumbled down a hill. You decided that depression was something everyone dealt with in life, so when I told you about mine, you gave a small shrug and said, “You’ll get over it”.

Some days my blood felt electrified and sleep was no longer necessary. I self medicated with drugs and alcohol because the people I met in life had convinced me that therapy and medication were just some money-hungry concept that left you feeling more empty than when you first started.

Thus, the idea of having a mental illness started poking into my thoughts and reminding me that – if it were true – I must be crazy. I was afraid to admit anything was wrong from that day on. Depression was just a part of life, so who was I to complain?

So I stumbled around in my teenage years and young adulthood, trying to figure out if the whiskey bottle or the drugs would win. Because there is no cure if you stop searching for a solution. I found myself struggling with habits that quickly formed overnight and I never did trust myself with other forms of coping mechanisms. Until I found art.

Now all these irrational thoughts pour out onto the paper and somehow make sense. If I were stripped of my ability to write feelings on paper, I’m positive life would be dull; almost meaningless. It’s a new way of coping I’ve been mastering over the years; a passion that cannot rival any other I have. If you told me I could no longer write, I’d rather be dead.



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.


Your Pessimistic Bullshit

The world didn’t condemn you,
It never slit your throat and said
“This is how I’ll end you.”
‘Cause there’s beauty
in a voice so broken,
And it’s one I yearn to hear.
Because I sang that tune in fear,
Till the day I almost died.
And if I had,
Just know I’d be forgotten.
But instead I’m sitting here,
Screaming in your ear
That you are not forgotten,
Listen closely.

This pessimistic bullshit that you leave in trails
is nothing but a deadbeat critic.
You have lost control.
Life is something that entails,
Finding peace of mind
and I hope this letter
finds you just in time.

‘Cause I’ve been where you stood.
Thought my words of deep depression
were not some sick infection of
who I had become.
Slowly I understood that when
the world beats you down,
it means, don’t make a sound.
Joy is merely found,
in the pieces left around.
Who are you,
if not what you’ve been told?
In this you’ll find your soul has not been sold.

Have A Margarita With Your Pain Killers

You carried yourself like a goddess; no flaws, just a walking piece of art. And if I hadn’t known any better, maybe I would have believed it. But I watched you throw back the drugs like candy and wash it down with a little bit of liquor. I could time it down to the hour.

It’s four o’clock and you reach for the bottle. I guess I learned from the best. I’m eighteen years old, taking thousands of milligram pills from the neighbors. And in my head, I know it is wrong. I’m looking in the mirror, a handful of pills, thoughts racing around my head.

How did I get here?

I can’t stop myself from washing them down with a cool drink. I walk back to the little gathering we had every weekend. I’m sitting in the living room, smiling faintly and sipping on my drink, trying to focus away from the lump in my throat. An hour passes by and I feel myself slipping away, but I don’t really care. I feel sick to my stomach, but the only thing left on my mind are the remaining three and a half pills in my pocket. I’m fighting myself, wondering if I should take them now or save them for later. I settle for the latter, because I’m not really sure that I can continue hiding the fact that I’m high as a kite. But my secret I had to keep.

Did you ever struggle like I have? Was there a reason behind your ritual? Did you even care about the example you set? Or maybe the fault is all my own; I swore to never be like you, but I hate to say I may be a spitting image.

Now I’m sitting here, debating whether or not to go back to NA, because though I haven’t slipped in the past few months, the thoughts never left. There is a creature lurking in the darkness, scratching my skin as I daydream in silence, waking me from a slumber I’ve managed well thus far. Is there a cure for this hell? Will I find it in a room full of strangers, though I never found it among friends? Am I crazy to believe that anything will help?

I watched you sip on your drinks and throw back pain killers like it was nothing. It became a habit even before I had access to the drugs. And though I don’t really blame you, I can’t help but wonder if it would all be different, had I not watched your example.