Depression looks like staring out a vacant window into thick fog that refuses to dissipate over an empty asphalt grave.
And they tell me if it is a window view I ought to be able to walk away, and I believe them, but I keep staring and the longer I look the harder it is look away.
Somedays I can step back a little, eyes still tuned to the glass and all that lays beyond but I am further away, and I can see more of the wall that surrounds the window and I could probably even make an educated guess at the color at the wall, but I won’t guarantee it because the window is still transfixing me.
And people come and go sometimes, and now I can see their reflections in the glass and I can even carry on conversations and sometimes they stand right in front of me and they think I am looking at them but I am still looking at the glass just behind them; I can see it even when they’re right in front of me.
And sometimes I can even pick up my phone and call an old friend and laugh about days when I was happier, but the weight of it is more than it should be and when I drop it it feels like a cinder block and my arm is tired and my voice is tired and I’m no longer able to remember why I picked up my phone in the first place.
I’ll just walk back over to my window. I know the way.
Depression plays a lonely game. It tempts me into a solitaire hand I know I can’t win, but depression taunts me, and I try again and again
And then I don’t. I flip over the same cards again and again but I don’t look because I already know: none of them will let me win, but depression pulled me in and now I have to finish.
I’ll just wait for the cards to be dealt. I know the drill.
Depression tells me all the things I haven’t done. It whispers them in my ear and nobody else can hear them, but it’s deafening to me. And I try to write them into poems so I can make sense of all the things depression tells me, but depression steals my words and when I don’t have those I don’t have anything left.
That gray sky that mirrored me yesterday is now just a gray sky filling my empty eyes and the silence that is crushing me is just the heat pouring out of the vents and this steering wheel that was full of possibilities is just cold plastic and those thoughts of running away are just empty dreams I’ll never fill. And I guess I should be grateful to depression for keeping my reality in check.
I’ll just be silent. I know, they’re only words anyway.
Depression feels like my monogamous partner, possessive boss, my overbearing parents and my full time bodyguard. And it doesn’t matter if I’m non-monogamous, an entrepreneur, my parents respect me or if I’m already safe because depression, well, it wraps itself around my body, controls me, and tells me it’s for my safety. And I’m beginning to believe it. I hurt a lot less around depression. And I know I must be crazy for missing the pain of existence but sometimes I confide that I miss the pain of solitary existence, and then depression reminds me how silly that is and that if I’m lonely now, how painfully lonely I would be without my own personal ghost.
I’ll just lock myself in and throw away the key. I know it’s for my safety.
And I know you have a window in the same building that captures your attention and honestly I want to reach over and wrap your hand in mine because I think this view might be bearable if it wasn’t so damn lonely but I don’t know how to have a dialogue about your window view because you can use the same words as I do but yours is yours and mine is mine and I can’t tell you how to walk away, I can only tell you I love you and hope I’m not so distracted by my window that I actually remember what it means to love you which honestly I think most days I do and I want to intertwine my fingers with yours, but truthfully I’m too familiar with the way depression sneaks in like fog through the seams of the window and wraps himself so close around me that I can’t feel other people’s body heat and sometimes it’s lonelier with them trying than when it’s just depression and I and sure, sometimes, I wish they’d keep on holding on even when I can’t feel them at all but depression has wrapped himself around me and my tongue and I don’t know what to say and so I’ll hope you want my hand in yours but I don’t know how to ask, and I don’t know where your window is, so I don’t know if I could reach you, even if I tried, well
I’ll just keep my hands to myself. It’s easier this way.