My depression is a shape shifter. One day it is as small as a fly the next it’s a bear. On those days I try to paly dead until the bear leave me alone. I call those day “The Dark Days.” I have tried everything to calm me down, but nothing works. I try to light up a candle, but all I see is the flicker of a flam, sparks of a memory younger than noon. I am standing beside my casket, and at this moment I realized that everyone I will ever come to know, will die someday. Besides, I’m not afraid of the dark, maybe that’s the problem.

“I thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed,” well, I cant. Anxiety holds me hostage inside of my house, inside of my head. “Where did anxiety come from?” anxiety is the cousin visiting out of town that depression felt obligated to invite to the party. Don’t you understand? I am the party, only I’m a party I don’t want to be at.

“why don’t you try going to actual parties, see your friends,” sure I make plans, I make plans I don’t want to go to. I make plans because I know I should want to go, I know sometimes I would have wanted to go, it’s just not that fun knowing when you don’t want to have fun. Can’t you see, that each night insomnia sweeps me up in his arms dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light. Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like the perfect company.

“try counting sheep,” but my mind can only count reason to stay awake. So I go for walks, but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists. They ring in my ears like clumsy church bells reminding me that I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness that I cannot baptize myself in.

“happy is a decision,” but my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg. My happy is a high fever that will break. Everyone says that I am so good at making something out of nothing, and then flat out asking if I am afraid of dying.

No, I’m afraid of living. I’m lonely. I think that when people leave, they turn the angry into lonely, the lonely into busy. So when I say I’ve been super busy, I mean I’ve been falling asleep on the couch watching Netflix to avoid confronting the empty side of my bed. But my depression always drags me back to my bed. Until my bones are forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city. My mouth a bone yard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves. The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with the echoes of a heartbeat, but I am just a careless tourist here.

I will never truly know where I have been. But they still don’t understand. Cant you see? Neither can I.