Depression
Depression.
It's measured by the number of dirty dishes piled in the sink.
In the laundry on the floor.
The dust in the corners.
The cobwebs on the ceiling.
It's the aversion to going outside, lest the sunshine throw into inescapable relief my flaws and failures because they might be overwhelming, that final straw on the poor camel's back.
It's the fragile smile, the "Oh fine, fine" when someone asks how I am.
It's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, at 2 in the morning, knowing I won't be going back to sleep for hours until my exhausted body finally forces my brain to shut down.
It's writing these poems, these lines of creativity that never seem to appear until things are bad.
It is, at the moment, me.
And yes, I know that this will eventually fade, and that things will probably perk up... but it's so exhausting. And I never know how long a lull is going to last, and it always comes as a nasty surprise when one ends and I spiral down again.
I hope this one passes soon.
It's measured by the number of dirty dishes piled in the sink.
In the laundry on the floor.
The dust in the corners.
The cobwebs on the ceiling.
It's the aversion to going outside, lest the sunshine throw into inescapable relief my flaws and failures because they might be overwhelming, that final straw on the poor camel's back.
It's the fragile smile, the "Oh fine, fine" when someone asks how I am.
It's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, at 2 in the morning, knowing I won't be going back to sleep for hours until my exhausted body finally forces my brain to shut down.
It's writing these poems, these lines of creativity that never seem to appear until things are bad.
It is, at the moment, me.
And yes, I know that this will eventually fade, and that things will probably perk up... but it's so exhausting. And I never know how long a lull is going to last, and it always comes as a nasty surprise when one ends and I spiral down again.
I hope this one passes soon.