A bag of pill bottles sits in front of you, and every single night at the same time, you nearly break your fingers trying to open them. You swear you used to be stronger, but now you're so exhausted to the point where prying the safety cap off of that orange bottle is enough to take the wind out of your sails.

On the harder days, you might even throw an extra tablet into the mix. Who the hell cares, right? If the extra isn't enough to hurt you, it doesn't matter. If it kills you, it's not your problem anymore. Except, you can't say those words out loud because the moment that you do, that's when everybody notices your problems. Out of all the cries for help that you scream through your actions, they don't pay attention until it's just bad enough.

You're too tired to eat but you know you have to. Soon after you realize there's a faint urge in your stomach, begging you to eat, you think back and realize you can't remember the last time you had a meal. The best you can do is shove a couple of saltines in your mouth to ward off the nausea, but not enough to make you even sicker. You begin to wonder just how far gone your appetite is.

On the rare occasion that you step outside, sometimes you'll hear the words 'Wow, you look like you've lost weight!'. Thanks, I have, but not the good way. I haven't been exercising, I've been staring at the ceiling for endless hours and I just haven't moved, haven't eaten, haven't spoken. I haven't had the motivation to do anything else.

Depression controls your movements now. You're just a puppet hung from strings being controlled by an invisible illness. But those strings are so taut that you're just so exhausted every time you try to move. You do what depression allows you to and you no longer go anywhere near the things that once made you happy. Depression doesn't allow that. It never does.

Sometimes, you learn not to hate the depression. It takes away the pain of the world, isolating only the pain you feel. Depression is a lot like your body going into shock. When your body starts to go into shock, you don't feel pain anymore. Numb. That's a lot like depression; just constant numbness. Numbness is a lot better than feeling constant pain, right? You don't like depression, but you've learned to embrace it as a safety mechanism. Stockholm Syndrome, except your captor is your own mind.

It begins to eat away at your identity. Who are you if you aren't depressed? Depression has taken away everything else that once made you who you are. All of those things you once enjoyed now seem so distant. Who are you now, if not a walking form of depression?

You sleep a lot now, but rest isn't on the menu. You're never rested. You could sleep for days at a time, but it's never enough. Each time you wake up, you feel the same as you did when your head hit the pillow. The days are mashing into each other now, just becoming one long, inescapable day.

If your lucky enough, your phone begins to fill with concerned messages from your friends. They want to know if you're okay. You're not. You haven't been for a while now. You want to text them back, let them know that you acknowledge them… but you can't. You're too tired now. A simple response is too much work and you don't have enough energy. You tell yourself that you'll get back to them soon… that's what you always say.

Seeing people live their lives without being held back by mental illness begins to fuel a flame of jealousy deep within you. How come it was you who got sick and not them? Not that you'd wish this horrible disease on anybody else. Still, you can't help but question it. Why me? Why can't I go to the movies or have a relationship or do fun things?

You have a therapy appointment coming up. You're dreading it; you always do. Just the thought of trying to make yourself look presentable and leave your house is so tiring. Although you don't want to, you still do it. You go, you dance around the topics as if you're trying not to reveal too much about what you're feeling. A part of you begs to release it and just talk about it. Spit it out. Scream from the top of your lungs that you're sick and tired of being sick and tired. But you don't. You reassure your therapist that you're doing okay and you'll keep doing okay. It's a lie, but you're too tired to tell the truth.

When you catch yourself staring outside, you see a flower beginning to pop through the grass. Your old self would've ran over, smelled it, enjoyed it. You begin to wonder what happened to them. Where did you go? Your old self, where are they hiding? The old you would've appreciate just how brightly colored the tulips look; how the contrast of the sky and the grass made it look like a beautiful painting. Now, there is no color. You see the color, but you can't process it. You can't appreciate it. It's all just so gray.

Once again, you lay your head down and force yourself to sleep. You'll wake up to see another day, and another one after that. You don't know if you'll be okay, but you keep trying. You keep pushing. You keep living. You always do.

It's because you're a fighter. You're a survivor. You have survived 100% of your bad days. Nobody can ever take that away from you.