Living with it.

Inhaling becomes harder. How you wouldn’t believe the molehills that I can make into mountains. Since you died I feel guilty about my age. A birthday, and a society of platitudes on platitudes on platitudes.

Where do I go from here, where do you find yourself when you are lost? It started when I could no longer speak what was happening inside of my head. The words “cognitive depression” scrawled in block letters across my planner, and more empty packets of Xanax. The amount of neurons in a brain and the amount of things I could possibly do at any second are too overwhelming.

The Summer, capital S, is difficult for me and I am Sad, capital S. The air is thick and humid. Most often it is too hot. I labor inside my mind. I flip through brightly colored files in a cherry wood filing cabinet. And I catch myself in these moments looking for you still. In the pursuit of “emotional stability” my mom took your death certificate so it would sit in a pile of papers far from my immediate sight. When it was here, in my bedroom, I lived with its presence. It hibernated in a manila folder; I existed around it, like a magnet that pulled me but when I got too close, repelled me.

I lament normal problems. Who is me? In what ways have my responses been altered because of anti-depressants? It is easy to be complacent, so I get riled up. I struggle to maintain relationships even with people to whom I once felt very close. I struggle to initiate new relationships. Things I love are challenging to pursue. The years feel very long and I am terrified of aging. So terrified that I cannot imagine it, not even for a moment.

When I look at my mind it is like staring at the top of blue water. You can see where the sun is shining and making the water light, and you can see where it starts to get dark. There are ripples, reflections, and refractions. I fear diving fully into the water and so to subsist I swim shallowly on top. I have forgotten that I was a musician and a writer. I have forgotten that I was an artist. Now I go to my part-time job. I make meals for myself and I do the laundry when it is necessary.

Depression is an illness, and I am Sick, capital S.

 

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