Lately, depression is my endless companion--it holds tight for each of the six hours of the ennui that follows my true awakening. Depression’s voice hisses, “You are never going to get back to normal. I’m not going to let you. I am keeping my eye on you so that you can’t come up with your tricks. Gratitude may not work here. Do you dare pick up the spade and bury me, or do I have you in thrall, that you’d bury your self here?”
Beside me in bed, that dent you left is occupied, by depression, its voice a hiss.
No, I say, this is not depression, this is terror, and I need to fight it. But where is my wand? My want? The friends I need to cheer me on? I think many of you have visited this scary place that tries to claim you for its own.
I need to let go of 'its' hand and reach for yours.
I am grateful that Depression can be named here. I am grateful to put what I feel and fear into words. I am grateful to be on the other side of getting out of the bed, at least for today. I am grateful for an art class I committed to for the next few weeks. I am grateful for being able to reach out to some of you with my shares.
I pray I won’t be triggering. I'm going to outlast this. There. And so I pray for laughter, to lighten the load. My counselor today suggested I turn to watch the Roadrunner. He dared me to not laugh. Beep beep.