These things don’t always have a reason. Some days you can live without your brain doing that thing that it does, and some days, you feel it coming as you bake a sweet potato in your kitchen. Kinda like when you’re sick and you know you’re about to throw up- that same feeling, but your throat clenches and tears pour out.
You remember how your friend said he was crying a few nights ago. You remember how he said you could always call him. And you wonder if you can reach out. But you figure he’s in a better place now-best to leave it untouched. Best not to bother anyone.
You think about the lists of people who said they’d be there on days like this. And you’re sure they would be, if you asked. But you remember that time that you called one, and when they asked what was wrong, you had nothing to offer. No reason as to why the world is ending today. Hung up feeling worse. It’s not their fault, but you remember.
You watch your sweet potato bake, but you don’t really want it anymore. But food = energy = dopamine, hopefully. You remember that emotions come and go, but you don’t know if they’ll ever stop hitting you like a tidal wave. If they’ll ever stop soaking every surface in your apartment. If you’ll ever get to be seen as someone who’s not prone to breaking down every few days. It’s not that you’re weak, it’s not their fault, it’s not yours, it’s just brain chemicals, it’s just depression.
I guess I’m just putting out a love letter to all of us crying into our sweet potatoes. To all of us with medications in our name and therapists in our phones and loved ones who have been with us since the start. I love you. I don’t know you, but I love you. This is a love letter for the days that aren’t new or groundbreaking, but still there, still hard, still worthy.
Call someone, even if you don’t mention yourself. Ask about their day. Eat your metaphorical sweet potatoes. Cry it out. I can’t personally promise that the tidal waves will ever calm down, but I can promise that you’ve survived it before, you’ll do it again, and that you’re meant to be here.