It is that time of night when the restless ghosts wonder my brain poking and prodding; imperfection dwelling on decisions unchanged by time. I wish they would get the hint and go back to their graves or completely leave the land of grey mush. Disappear.
I suffer from depression, functional depression, but still depression. It didn’t come as a surprise, but it still wasn’t welcomed. Emotional rollercoaster doesn’t really give the emotional swings credit for the twists and turns and anyway rollercoaster’s are suposed to be fun.
I may gripe about the depression; however I am quite sure that there are more people that suffer worse then I, but for me, I am tired of feeling crazy. The mind can play hellish tricks on body and soul.
Your physical body takes the pain of each punch driven comment; my soul cries out of frustrated exhaustion. My friend once called my depression - the dingy layers that need to be brushed away. I have scrubbed and some of the dust remains, I have a hard time letting go...
Something happened to strip me of one self, the one I am struggling to be like again. I want to be the same person, but there are some characteristics I can’t wait to see again. I won’t get into the details, because they bore me now and I have talked about it for too long.
But this is what is left a culmination of the recent disaster and years of shut off emotion, the bulb is solar and takes quite a while to warm up; I’m still waiting. It comes in sprits - the warm glow of confidence and sanity dim by over us and quickly die out, trying to charge up once more.
The pills offer a feeling of complacency. I might be a witness to a violent act and respond to the reporter’s questions with “And….” Maybe to torment society with another apathetic young woman.
That is what drives me crazy. What is the true me? Am I the once scared and tearful child afraid to make a mistake because my father or mother may stop loving me? Fighting for attention while trying to take care of my sister and being a strong solider for my father; all expectations were fabricated illusions of an army vet and a hippie.
Writing - my desperate attempt at trying to reach balance within myself and find a way to live with depression.
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