Tag: depression

I do. Do you?

I still wonder if it would be okay if I Venmo’d that 63 dollars I owe you from stopping my car from getting towed. At least we enjoyed Wreck It Ralph 2 afterwards, right?

I still wonder if you decided to throw out your bed, rather than give it to me.

I still wonder if it’s okay to give you the Christmas present I made you. I didn’t buy one. It’s a five page letter about me telling you my favorite memories of us together, and exactly what went through my mind during those times. It told you I loved you. It told you I was falling in love with you.

I still wonder if you know that I check my car windshield everyday, to see if you returned the things I gave to you. You know. My garage opener, my sweatshirts, my heart.

I still wonder if you think of me. If you think about the stupid fun nights we had. I still wonder if you remember me puking the first time you took me on a hike. I still wonder if you remember that you said I love you first. I still wonder if you remember that you pushed in to kiss me first. I still wonder if you remember the night where you were half asleep, and we were cuddling. You woke me up just to tell me you loved me. Then you kissed me, and slumped back down to sleep…

I remember. I remember the countless nights waiting up for you to call me, text me, show you were alive. I remember when you started acting weird the night of my roommate’s going away party. You said you were going to come, but then you didn’t. I remember that you were also going to your party for work. I remember how you said you lyfted to your friend’s house and have no idea how you got there. I remember you didn’t say I love you before you hung up. I remember you kept apologizing over every thing. I remember you stopped talking to me. For almost two weeks. I remember you said you would call me Christmas night. I remember you didn’t. I remember a lot of great nights with you.

I know I still love you, even if I shouldn’t. I know you still love me, even if you shouldn’t. I know you still look at all of my social media posts, even though you “are almost never on social media”. I know this isn’t how should treat one of your, “only friends”. I know I would take you back if you asked me. I know a part of me always will belong to you. I know that I said that in my letter. I know I’ll never get over you completely. I know that no matter what, I’d leave every door unlocked if you said you might come over. I know I miss you Katherine. I miss you

I do. Do you?

Depression

Things always get better. I know that. That is one thing I always tell my friends when they’re struggling. “I don’t know when. I don’t know how. I don’t know where, but things will get better”. It’s always a lot easier to say. I sometimes spray it, or pray it. It’s always harder to believe it when you can’t see the end of the tunnel, like everything is a funnel into a black hole swallowing you whole until it’s nullified and your brain feels fried from the inside out. You pout all along, hearing “things will get… better”. What if I feel like I’m better off dead…. You know those days where, no matter how hard you try, you just can’t get out of bed. Those are the days I dread. When every wrong thing I’ve said comes ebbing back to my mind, as I sit there petrified, losing track of time, as my body has better identified with a rock, unwilling to move. 

Sometimes if I work my body into a groove, I can kick myself up, and I’m able to free myself from depression’s magnet, and I no longer remain stagnant, waiting to die…. That’s a lie… Those thoughts are never confined to the four walls surrounding the humble abode which is mine, it stays within the four walls, ceiling, and floor the encompasses my mind and THAT… is where the devil spies. I’ve tried to kick him sky high but he always floats right back down to behind my eyes where the river of tears to cry, lies. He pries my skull wide, dying to see what’s inside. Flying from neuron to neuron until they’re all fried. Once they are, he no longer wishes to hide, rather, metastasize to every other region in my body he can find. He is a cancer. One that chemo can not rid from me.

They always said the devil was a beauty. Now I can truly see what they mean. They mean he is beautiful in the sense of he is the king of ripping through your saccharine heart until it gleams crimson from the blood that pours out. You may not like these pictures and images, but what do I care if you’re scared of the monster that I’VE had to live with for 21 years. It’s becoming more clear he is splitting me from ear to ear so I want to write it down before he finishes his job. Which is to take my last sob. He wishes to rob me of my life. 

But I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight.