Now listening to Bad Idea! by girl in red.
This privileged woman will never understand.
My depression is a fluid, rising and receding. Some days, I wade through it to the happiness that awaits me on the other side. Far more often are the days where I can’t touch the bottom, days when I can’t see the other side. Days where I barely have enough strength to keep my head above the waves of sadness.
But that isn’t even the worst of it.
There are days that I drown. The water fills my lungs as I struggle for every breath. Days where every inconvenience sweeps my feet out from under me, making it harder and harder to get back up. Days where the other side seems like a memory I can feel but not recall. Days when giving up, letting myself sink and fade away gets so tempting that even my most lovely memories cannot fight it. Days where seeing you, think about you, remembering you makes me more and more tired, defeated, exhausted. Makes sit harder to fill my lungs with oxygen.
Now listening to The Bidding, by Tally Hall.
Have you ever felt like that, mother?
You’ve witnessed it so many times, but the empathy you’re always preaching about evades you. You have seen me at my lowest, you’re witnessing me near it, and all you’re worried about is yourself. You see me, barely treading, feet kicking helplessly, my tears of agony and fatigue mixing seamlessly with the water I’m fighting against, and you don’t extend your hand. You pump me full of meds that make me even more tired, drugs that make it harder to imagine the other side, that steal the precious air from my lungs, and you scream at me for not trying hard enough.
Now listening to Sleep, by My Chemical Romance.
If I am too tired to keep myself afloat, please explain to me why you think I’m able to do anything other than swim.
You get in the water with me, giving me hope that you finally understand, that you’re ready to listen. But all you do is make the tidal waves into tsunamis, the banks farther apart, the murky water deeper.
It’s time for me to dive back in, to fight again. Will you be there to stop me? Or will you watch as I’m washed under, thrashed about like a rag doll, and wait for me to resurface before you start all over again?
This was written to my mother, in poetry form, after I got yelled at for not reaching her expectations of a child that deserves her attention, her love, her validation. I can’t wait until I turn 18, so I can get out of this sh!t town and block her number (although I will forever know it by heart). I’m so tired of this. I’m so tired.
Remember to take care of yourselves (even though I haven’t in a while) and to check in on the ones you love. Drink some water, take some deep breaths. You’re gonna be okay. I’ll see y’all when I have another creative streak.