Having depression is kind of like living under perpetual clouds. Big, thick, black ones. Sometimes there’s a little break in the clouds and the sun manages to shine through it, but those moments are temporary. It’s also easy to forget they ever happen when on other occasions the weather gets so bad it’s like living in a thunderstorm with no shelter.
Depression makes you feel like you’re cramped up in a tiny, cold carboard box with nobody else around to scream to for help to get out of it. I suppose that box is my head.
Depression is like somebody has stuck a needle into you, drained out all of your blood, and then refilled it with liquid concrete. You become so heavy you can barely move. You don’t even feel human anymore, like you’ve been drained of some secret life essence that courses through the veins of healthy people.
Depression makes you hate yourself. So, so much. It makes you somehow implicate yourself with blame for everything that you perceive to be wrong with the world. It makes you feel that you deserve to be punished for all of those wrongs. I want to pull my hair out, I want to punch the walls until my knuckles bleed, I want to put out cigarettes on all the awful parts of my body, I want to take the biggest kitchen knife I own and slash and slash and slash. But you know. My veins are full of concrete. So I don’t have the energy or strength to attempt any of those things. I just enact them in the cold, cramped cardboard box that is my mind.
Depression makes you want to run, but your legs won’t move. It makes your eyes cry and cry until they’re sore, and red, and puffy, and then you cry some more. It stops the words coming out of your mouth like it’s holding back your tongue daring you to utter the words to someone you love about how it’s treating you. Like if you tell them it will punish you worse as a result.
Depression keeps me in my bed, drifting in and out of dreams and nightmares. It stops me from eating. My stomach burns, my blood pressure drops. I’m too dizzy to sit up, and my hands are shaking. I’m cold, but sweating. I use all the blankets but they don’t seem to warm me up.
Depression makes death seem like heaven in itself. It makes thoughts of hanging yourself with a belt, of cutting into your jugular vein, of running in front of oncoming traffic, of literally starving yourself to death all seem like legitimate pathways to relief. Relief from a monster that feels like its hands are permanently around your neck, squeezing, but taunting, so that it leaves you just an inch from the relief that you crave.
Depression makes a theist pray to God each night that they won’t wake up again in the morning.