One time my therapist asked me, “if you know being still won’t get you anywhere, and that is what triggers your sadness, then why don’t you change or move in order to become happy?”
“It’s like ice”, I replied back then, “I’m stripped naked and splayed out on it. The ice is cold and burns. It burns my flesh and I know that if I get up the air will make it sting more. I will be more aware of the burns so I don’t get up. Because, I am afraid. I am afraid of the air pricking my skin and the unknown that awaits me. Lying on the block of ice is all i’ve known and this sadness feels like home.”
He said, “You can move. A momentary lash of air might provide relief, forever.”
“Forever is a long time and the unknown holds promises which don’t always have to be laced with sweet hope.”, I replied.
” So you don’t want to get up?” He asked
“I do. I’m waiting for the block of ice to melt.”
Depression. It’s like a lover that sweeps me up in its arms and throws me on the bed so hard that I end up breaking no bones but for the next few weeks, I can hardly get out of bed.
No. I don’t want to be yours, anymore. I see it go away and muster the strength to start afresh in life. Every effort against it is a win. I think I’m winning.
But, I am afarid.
I’m afraid that it is still there lingering like a shadow ready to turn into a ghost that will haunt me. It stares at me from outside the window and I am too afraid to let fresh air in because I cannot run the risk of letting it come back.
Depression is back. Sometimes the emptiness in my chest gets so heavy that I find it hard to breath. I end up beating my chest to unclog my lungs in an effort to rid of this disease. It goes away but I’m not sure for how long. I wouldn’t know because last time I spent two months without it and bid it farewell.
What I’m saying is that the dark clouds are back again and like everytime, I fear that there would be no way out of this. I’ll crumple like a piece of paper in the corner of my bed and my bones would sink into the mattress. My chest would be empty and suffocation will be the death of me.
I see it smoking by the door. Depression.
It’s coming at me like a war torn lover coming home.