Some days I couldn’t get out of bed. Some days it seemed like I was in Depression’s waiting room, waiting for my name to be called.
Feeling like anyone but yourself feels like one long night.
The most common reaction I have received when I have told someone I have depression is for him or her to tell me that I should try and be happier, to try and look on the bright side of things.
It’s choosing to spend Christmas alone because you’d rather be alone than have to fake it one more time. Next year, you think. Next year I’ll be better.
The air felt heavy. I had flashes of my best friends laughing. I had flashes of the darkness. I got off the floor, and I got into my car.
If you whistle them, they’ll brighten any unsuspecting passerby’s day. If you send their lyrics to someone, you might get several “everything okay?” texts.
Semantics allow for that: suicidal is a state, not a verb.
I am never again going to let some mean boy make me feel like crap because he was “just teasing.”
Without the room with the decapitated heads, duck vaginas, and voodoo dolls.
Last night I smoked a blunt with a 65-year-old woman.