depression

when the war is not with another person but yourself.

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1. depression

I used to think that depression was a dirty word that I should never use in fear of the letters crawling under my skin and into my mind. It was silly, how I honestly and truly thought that I would never be affected by it. Why should I have, though? I was the happiest kid around; fun, bright, outgoing, popular. I was a shooting star, if ever you’ve seen one.

 

Depression isn’t a black and white gif on tumblr or a poem about slitting your wrists in the bathroom. It isn’t cute or beautifully tragic or brave, as if the chemical imbalance in your brain somehow makes you a hero. It is the overwhelming feeling of rotting away inside yourself, as if your body and mind is festering and wasting away right before your eyes.

 

It’s lying in bed for hours and staring at the ceiling because you physically cannot move. It’s forgetting to eat for a whole day then devouring half your cupboard’s contents in the blink of an eye. It’s the terrifying numbness that eats away at you all hours of the day, accompanied by the swirling nausea in the pit of your stomach. It’s the fact that you can’t bring yourself to care about anything anymore because nothing matters to you. It’s the sensations of dirt and grease crawling along your skin and scalp because you haven’t showered or cleaned yourself in days. It’s genuinely not caring about your life, your friends, your family, your future and your school because you can’t bring yourself to care.

 

Depression is the ongoing battle inside your head between the part of you that wants to reach out and get better and the part that wants to be swallowed whole by this disease. It feels like suffocation except worse, I imagine; you’re killing yourself in the slowest, most painful way possible. It’s the war between wanting to find something to live for and wanting a way to die.


I wish I could carve the words ‘DEPRESSION IS NOT BEAUTIFUL’ into the mind of every person on this planet, but it would still not be enough. Mental illness is not tragic or romantic - it’s an honest hell.

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