To everyone who romanticizes depression,
Depression haunts the media: in movies, on the radio, in news and on TV.
No matter how much this condition is broadcasted, there is no way for anyone to understand what it truly feels like.
Depression is not my fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. No one can see it but it’s there inside me festering into a black hole sucking my emotions dry. I’m tired, always tired. It’s like a well I fall into, and every day, I try to get out — only to reach to the zenith but end up sliding back down.
Depression is not just shedding a couple of tears because of a bad day. It is feeling like the world’s weight is on my shoulders and that there’s nothing and no one left to approach or talk to. I grew angry and exhausted and worst of all: silent.
When I am only a shell of myself, it is hard pretending to be complete. Usually, I can be “normal”. Every day is the same. I learned to laugh. When I am alone, the darkest shade of blue comes to life while I’m being shut down. My chest feels heavy, and I am a sinking deeper and deeper into water, so blue it looks black.
When the waves of hurt, anger and guilt wash over me, and my eyes almost close, I remember. I remember the smell rain makes on the asphalt when it’s the middle of summer. I remember the creases and the cracked cover of my favorite book. I remember my father’s laugh and our plans to travel the world together. I remember my best friend’s wild hair and lion heart. I remember what it feels like to be at the top of my well, with the idea of happiness just a little closer. I feel content.
Being “happy," however, is an emotion that feels like a luxury because of the chemical imbalances in my brain.
Depression isn’t a “desirable” state of mind of be in.
Don’t force yourself to be broken when you are whole.
So on that note, I wish you sorrow.
Just enough so that your ceaseless heart can learn to love.