And this goes on.
The euphoria and the severe depression.
Dancing together forever, never a medium.
Never a middle ground.
I am up high, and a second later, I am below the ground.
What is depression?
Cured by pills?
Those commercials that show a woman not able to play ball with her dog,
a man that cries in his office?
If that is depression, I want it.
I would take that willingly.
Because that is not my depression.
My depression is lethal,
it is a terminal disease.
You do not survive this.
I can play ball with the dog,
I can get out of bed,
I can keep myself from crying,
I can wash my hair,
I can eat and laugh and be,
but I will not survive this.
That is the difference between the depression society likes to flirt with,
and real, deep, in-your-soul darkness.
It likes to let you feel alive,
just enough so that you crumble when the high has passed.
It likes to toy with you, play with you, turn you into its puppet.
It likes to give you moments where you feel that everything will be okay,
because it likes to see your soul bleed when you realize that it never will be.
Every second of every day there is a razor slicing your brain into pieces,
every person you meet has an ulterior motive,
every mouth tells lies,
every crack on the sidewalk is a sign,
every touch is a symbol,
every fuck is meaningless,
every laugh is dry,
every man is a fraud,
every woman is a nemesis,
every mirror tells the truth.
You cannot ever truly let yourself love another,
because they will hurt you in the end.
Or you will hurt them,
you will destroy them in the end.
And there is no one person that could change that,
no special set of words that could change that,
it simply is.
You are not allowed to ever fully love or be loved.
And no one, despite what they say, could ever truly love you anyway.
You float most days,
losing track of the days weeks months
Disassociate until you are standing next to a calendar,
three years later,
not able to recall anything.
The only thing you know for sure is that you spent the last three years drifting.
You accomplished nothing.
You hid in your bedroom for most of it,
afraid of the world.
The fear is another thing.
At all times, you are barely breathing.
At all times, you are struggling for air.
Everything scares you,
everything is unknown and dangerous.
Leaving the house to check the mail,
being in a crowded mall,
driving on the freeway,
going to the doctor,
going to the store,
answering your phone,
the fear overpowers you,
until it is all that is left.
And the anti-anxiety meds helped for a while,
until they didn’t.
And because you look so put together on the outside,
no one believes you when you speak of this fear.
That is another difference, you see,
on the commercials,
depression and bipolar and ptsd and all the others
are so visual.
You see their depression
You see their sadness
You see their crazy.
But that is a fable
that is the soft-padded room that people like to crawl into.
That is not this.
It stays hidden.
It doesn’t not show its face very often.
People think you are okay now,
that you’ve grown,
that because you are not crying all the time or punching walls or drowning in alcohol
you are better now.
And that is the most dangerous place of all.
When you are dying from a terminal disease
and no one knows it
no one sees it
and you are too far gone to be able to express it
you cannot explain it
you cannot define it
you just stand there,
The pills do not work for this
therapy does not work for this
man cannot fix this
because man cannot define this
It is a curse beyond the human race
a galactic flaw
that cannot be ailed.
There is no label
call me bipolar, call me depressed, call me whatever you’d like
but they will fall short
and I will still be here
hanging by this noose
while you are busy searching up definitions.
You quit seeking help
because you are so exhausted of being disappointed
by the lack of results
There is no help for you
Inside my mind
there is nothing
there is everything
and I am chained
until I am finally released at the end