Depression. Again.
Meet my depression.
Two weeks.
Every morning for two weeks now, I wake up wanting to give up. To cry. To quit.
I am not sleep deprived. I do have a cold, as a result I am surprisingly well-rested.
I am not hungry. I have been cooking healthy meals at night, and eating loads.
I have been getting my exercise and taking my meds.
But I wake up wanting to quit. To make it all stop. To end it.
What is “it”?
I don't know.
But there's a cry that needs released from my soul.
Each and every morning for the last two weeks.
It wants to start with a scream, at nothingness.
If left alone, it wants to become a howl.
A howl of rage and pain and release.
A howl that continues until nothing is left but the tears.
The tears. A cry.
A cry that is pulled from the deepest place of the psyche.
A cry that consumes every cell of your being.
A cry that wracks your body, the spasms rendering you unable to move.
To breathe. To think.
Each and every morning for two weeks.
I don't scream.
I don't cry.
I don't yell.
I don't let the world know.
I deny the universe the outward display.
The universe hates that.