Nobody knows that I suffer from depression. I walk and talk with a smile, confidently and securely. But I ache. With each step that I take, it’s like the ground pushes back on my feet, sends a vibration up my body til my teeth shake and I bite my tongue. I bite my tongue to not cry. To not scream. To not die. I hate my skin and yet I love it. Why do I lotion it? What does it even matter to a body that doesn’t want to live? I wake up and I eat. What does eating matter to a stomach that doesn’t want to exist? I work. What does work have to do with anything? What is money?
Yes, I notice how beautiful it is today. The sun, the breeze. Or the moon and stars. I love it. The air is crisp. I appreciate it. But I don’t want to be here. There is nothing like the pain of sex and claws on my back, hoping that your lover will dig his nails into you and rip out your heart as you climax. This is how I want to die.
Nothing satisfies. Nothing is clean enough. Nothing is dirty enough. I am sad, completely. I laugh during a movie. Then I want to cry. I draw a picture. Then I want to die. I listen to a good song. Then I want to die. This is depression. This is my life. This is my heartache.