I rarely make the effort to reach out to people, which probably makes a lot of people think I don’t care enough about our friendship to be bothered. Most of the time I badly want to talk to someone more, but I avoid reaching out because I worry I’m bothering them.
Depression never leaves you alone. Every morning, he awakens before you do. You wake up to him sitting on your chest, a large black creature, staring you in the face with eyes that never blink.
When you have depression, all you want is to feel normal. People aren’t faking or doing it for attention or any other ridiculous reason you might think.
You shouldn’t feel bad for feeling bad.
It comes out from hiding when you least expect it. It’s a ghost that you never invited inside your brain. It’s a skeleton in your closet, that won’t go away no matter how many times you smash it to pieces. It’s a monster under your bed, who comes out to play at the worst possible moments.
I’m going to therapy to love myself harder. To treat myself better. To care for myself in ways that no one else can. I’m going to therapy to love parts of myself that I haven’t found compassion for yet. I’m going to come to terms with my mistakes, and to accept me for me. The good and the bad parts.
Time. And if there’s ever going to be enough of it.
Try telling me I am not my disease on a day I’d walk through fire just to feel anything, or on a day I imagine what it would be like to sit at the bottom of the ocean and be drowned in its silence.
If you have anxiety, you’re a survivor. It doesn’t own you. You. Own. It.
Sometimes I consider pretending morning never arrived. I can slip back to sleep and blame it on an eternal nighttime. If I shut the blinds, who could even tell the difference?