Depression. That's what the doctor called it. The therapist. It's a word so loosely used, it can mean a few moments of sadness or it can describe how I honestly feel.
They just said I feel sad and alone. No, no, no, it's more than that. It's a living nightmare.
How many nights did I sit at my desk, writing poetry? Dark, dark, words, tearing words. Drawing pictures, a girl with her hair covering her eyes. Crying. Stuck in a hole. In my mind, she wouldn't ever escape.
The pictures of the chained animals, the chained girl, wanting to be free. Nothing else, nothing but darkness. An elephant fighting against the restraints, dreaming of going away from that dark place. A horse that cannot buck anymore, exhausted, ready to die.
Those images, flying through my head. The writing was worse. Terrible, bloody, dark writing. Stories so terrible I would cry, hating myself.
Blame the depression. Write something happy.
You're just depressed. Cheer up.
No, it's worse. It felt like the fabric of time, deep purple and shining ribbon against the blackness of space, whipping by, was about to end. I didn't ask to die, I didn't consider suicide. It just felt like it would happen. Suddenly end. Silk ribbon through my fingers.
I would write and draw. Somehow, at the same time, my soul was strong and torn. Strong, moving forward, wanting to get things on paper. Torn, sad and alone and helpless.
What would it do? The darkness would go away. I'd be free. The chains would become lose, I could run away from it. I could buck. I could grow wings and fly out of the grave.
But who I am, what I want to be, what I want to do, it takes it away. I'll become numb, happy. I'd lose what I love.
Do I really want to sacrifice that?