The author of this work wishes to remain anonymous but asks readers to understand that depression is not a choice, and we all need to take a closer look.
Go kill yourself, she said from behind her sunglasses of hatred, her lips glossy with expensive lipbalm. Go kill youself, she repeats, as if the first time wasn’t enough, as if I am deaf to her words. If only I was.
The perfume of her words sits above my brain,
slowly Sinking and settling amongst words of my own creation and
The non-existent self-esteem that holds me captive.
A whispered and shaky “fuck you” escapes from my mouth, though of course there is
no irrational feelings of contentment or confusion at her careless choice of wording…
I never bare my arms, because the scars of my past are unsightly
And possibly triggering for both myself and others. And I do not want to be the cause of another’s pain.
But maybe I should have unleashed my arms from my long sleeve shirts, riddled with memories and times long forgotten.
Because maybe if I had, those hateful words would not have come from her lips
Like ill-bound fruit falling off a laden tree.
Maybe if I had said something, anything besides fuck you, she would have known, what her words meant to me.
What I would attempt that night. Because
Depression hits you like a ton of bricks,
Because depression is something you face alone,
something that doesn’t care if you’re having a bad day,
if you feel like you have nothing to live for, when you no longer want to fight.
Depression could care less.
Depression will kick you down after you just got back up,
Depression will cripple you in your last dying breaths.
And that “go kill yourself” just became part of a long-running list of reasons why
Everything would be easier, everyone would be better off..if I wasn’t around.
And so —
She just killed me with those few unrelenting words that are frozen in my mind.
No one can understand what we with depression go through on a daily basis.
Because the stigma surrounding mental health is so bad,
That we are being deserted,
Killed off every day from the sheer lack of compassion from the rest of the world.
Depression is worse than death.
Because at least with death, there is pure, blissful silence,
A finality so overwhelmingly beautiful that I’ve considered it once or twice. (Or every single day since I was 16.)
With depression, every time is different, every trigger distinct and separate from last time. Every day is a struggle to keep going, to keep living.
You think it’s so easy, being here, dealing with your shit while trying not to be swallowed by the thoughts in my brain? Trying to picture what I might be doing an hour, a day, 3 years from now? When the only thing I can picture is the epitaph on my tombstone? When I would kill for some peace and quiet?
You see me.
But you don’t know me.
I sit here, silent, the invisible tears streaming down my hardened face. Outside, I am strong, successful, undefeated, loud, confidant.
Inside, though, I am weak, lonely, unsure, and shivering with the fear that I might not be here tomorrow.
Do you care?
I’m asking you all.
With all that is sweet, and pure,
And all that is beautiful, recant those words before spewing them out of your ignorant mouth.
Recant those words, because trust me, every one of them counts.
Before you insult another, think of how you would feel, if one day that person you insulted carelessly