27 pills.

I count them twice. I then calculate how many I’d have to take in order to not wake up. The deeper I go down my depression the more I wonder why the hell I’m still here. The pills that are supposed to make me feel better can only work if I believe they do. I had stopped believing in their powers weeks ago but I don’t want to tell anyone that.

Every day I wake up and I think to myself, “Fuck.” I don’t want to wake up anymore and still be trapped in a mind that’s so sick it is literally calculating how many pills it would take to overdose. I don’t want to be that burden on my friends and family who even though they say I’m not draining them, I am. I can see it’s not only emotionally gruelling, but it’s physically and mentally exhausting trying to convince someone they’re OK.

I never used to be this person. The one who counts the hours until they can be alone again. The one who does not want to have any conversations with anyone anymore. The one who doesn’t want to get her sad all over everyone else. Unfortunately, this is my cross to bear and explaining it to people who don’t get it becomes a task I no longer want to partake in.

I thought I was alone in my depression. I thought that no one else could understand exactly what I was going through until I started talking about it. I started to do the things I didn’t want to do and admit my demons. I didn’t want people to think about the things that go on in my head as crazy but I, myself, thought I was crazy. I thought that having invisible angry self-hatred conversations with myself would dub me insane until I found out there are people out there just like me.

The second I started opening up to people, they started opening up to me. I heard about struggles from people I had always assumed had it together. I started to realize that even when people think everything is going well for others, that often times we’re wrong. Society convinces us that being weak and expressing vulnerabilities is a bad thing. It’s really not.

I wake up most days wondering why I’m still here. What could I possibly offer the world that people whose lives were taken too short couldn’t? I still don’t know the answer to that. I don’t know if my pain and anguish will lead to something good or to my own demise. I don’t know if I’ll get through the day without counting my pills and instead of taking just one, take the whole bottle.

The thing is though that I am still here. I am still here and have a purpose, just like you.

Even though you don’t know where you’re heading or what life has in store for you, you’re still here. Are you struggling? Absolutely. Do you pretend that your depression isn’t a part of you? Most days. Do you even really remember the last time you were truly happy? Not really.

So you get through the day based on what little faith you have left. At least that’s what I do. Even though I’m completely bruised. I’m completely defeated. There’s still a part of me that has faith in something bigger than myself. I don’t know what it is and I’m not here to convince to you believe in something you don’t.

All I do know is this, you are bigger than your depression. You are bigger than whatever the fuck has got you down. You have made it through all of your bad days and you are a fighter. Anyone who manages to wake up another day and battle through life is a warrior.

So talk about it. Talk about your struggles. Tell people. You will connect with other humans on a level you didn’t know existed. We all go through pain but if you can keep the faith you will prevail.