what depression feels like
I want to call it a storm, but I never saw it looming
and neither are its thunders predictable.
The crack of a whip jolts me awake
except I never really sleep.
I could call it a war, but a war is only waged between two parties
And I am alone in every position that matters.
No, enemies do not stand on either side of this tug of war
It’s just me.
Maybe every thunderclap I hear is meant to make me stronger.
The rain tends to soak me, perhaps to cleanse me,
but it failed to consider what abates me is deep within me.
And pain is smart enough to hide
Imagine if pain could be seen, touched
It would be so easy to prod at it, suture it with thread.
Cover it up with a band-aid with a smily face.
It would be so simple, but life is never so.
So, instead of trying to picture the pain, I picture my guilty pleasures.
Giving in when I know I won’t,
Like Moses cutting wide open the red sea,
Blood poisoning the waters until it all becomes still again.
Every breath becomes more laborious.
I have formed a habit out of breathing,
even if I have been struggling with my lungs since a year ago.
And yet I breathe.
And if I could yell until my vocal cords tore,
I would curse a God who has an irony of stitching it all up,
just to tear the gauze off again,
to teach me a lesson, to make something out of a nobody.
I don’t want to say I’m not thankful
I am a by-product of a woman’s love and a man’s ambivalence
I am sheltered by my brother’s arms when the winds get tough,
I am whispered ‘you’re enough’ by the sole person keeping me on this earth.
If anything, it is because I have ran out of things to be thankful for.
Spring came and went, left me wheezing for breath.
Fall gave way to winter, snow covered the ground.
And what little happiness I had stored in my pocket was left barren.
Oh, and I certainly feel deserted.
If I were all powerful, I’d ask my demons to cease,
I would rush the arms of the clock
I would freeze this life forever in the spring,
and I would remain forever in that fortress I call home
This home of mine is shaken by the hurricane outside.
It is never hurricane season, it is just a forever weather.
And the windows refuse to give in to the furious wind,
so I cower in a corner and pray, pray, pray.
But nobody listens, do they?
And that’s because I haven’t been speaking
I’ve been laughing, hoping, yearning, huffing and puffing,
but my voice is too tired to be raised.
And I count to ten.
Maybe in nine months I’ll be better then,
And who cares about December the eighth?
Who is there to spend the seventh month next to?
To draw six chalk boxes on the sidewalk?
It’s five a.m and the clock persists.
I have four nice pictures in my pocket.
Three of them belonged to my mother.
Two are the days I have tasted happiness
And one is the beating heart I have.
So, beware, outside it is raging
And it is unpredictable
I am told this girl is forever stuck in that season,
and she’ll never see the sun again.
But, listen, I was also told this would get worse
by the four demons clinging to my bedpost
And it doesn’t get worse, it just became a habit.
Lungs swell, lungs deflate.
It is that way for the living, and the undying dead.
If anything, I am just too stubborn to give up
when I’ve learnt how to live out of habit
And what is existing if not so?
hiii :) this is not meant to be taken literally, but i just went on a rant over a word document and came up with this. i have been struggling with mental health pretty badly these last few months, and i just hope someone might be feeling the same way and understand that they are not alone, cause im also going through it.
thank you for reading :)