Having depression is like being thrown into a thrashing, surging ocean,
And you have zero idea how to swim.
Meanwhile, the entire world expects you to keep moving forward,
To keep trying to swim in this thing called life,
Even if you can't swim at all.

But you feel like you're dying.
You're choking on your own breaths.
And every breath is a struggle.
You feel completely stranded and alone.
As waves continue to crash over your head and pummel you with water,
You want to give up the fight, but you have to stay afloat.

Help comes in the form of pills.
They become your floatation device.
You're no longer relying on your own willpower to stay alive.
You're relying on what people say will keep you afloat.
Now at least you won't drown,
But you still don't know how to swim on your own.

Therapy helps teach you how to swim.
Soon you are swimming forward,
All on your own this time.
Or so you thought.

Even with the best therapists and things to keep you afloat...
The waves will still come,
Whether you want them to or not.
Because you have no control over them.
And you still can't swim on your own.
But people still don't understand.

They say that you should be all better.
They think that one bad day means you're relapsing.
You feel ashamed of your bad days,
So you hide them from people because,
Those people just don't understand the hardships of your journey.

You're still trying to learn to swim forward while the crushing waves and blasting currents are going against you.
No wonder you're so exhausted.
Every.  Single.  Day.
No wonder bad days still come sometimes.
Because some days will come that getting out of bed is hard,
And all you want to do is hide under the blankets.

But you don't, because the world expects you to get out of bed.
So, you get up and take a shower.
You make breakfast for yourself.
You grip onto the radiating warmth of your cup of coffee.
You remind yourself of who you are.
And you remind yourself of how strong you are,
And how strong you can be.

Because bad times might come.
Bad days are going to come.
But you still can't swim on your own.
You still feel like you want to stop moving.
Let yourself drown in the crushing currents of the ocean.

But you can't give up just yet,
Because tomorrow might be better.
Tomorrow there might be moments you want to live for.
Sunsets you want to chase,
People you want to embrace,
Laughs you want to share and tears drops you want to cry.
Memories you want to make,
Conversations you want to have,
Favorite foods you want to savor and places you want to go.
Things you want to try,
Gifts you want to give,
And love you want to find.
But you wouldn't know unless you kept trying to swim.

So you choose to keep trying.
You choose to not give up.
You choose to remember how strong you are,
Because better days will come.
And at one point, on one day, you will learn how to completely swim on your own.

What would your seven-year old self say if
She saw you refusing your favorite kind of ice cream?
Because that ice cream has way too many calories,
Right?
What would your seven-year old self think if
You looked at her everyday and told her, 'you're fat'
Because that's what you do when you look in the miror everyday,
Right?
What would your seven-year old self think of you when she found out
You count every single calorie you eat
Because if you eat too many calories, you might get fat,
Right?
What if your seven-year old self found out that
You cry yourself to sleep every night
Because you can't release your emotions any other way,
Right?
How would your seven-year old self feel
If you called her horrid names everyday when you looked at her
Because that's what you do to yourself,
Right?
What if your seven-year old self asked you
Could you call me the same terrible names you call yourself everyday?
But no, you couldn't, so why do you call yourself these things?

You can write for hours on hours,
Of all the things that you wish you could be,
But the truth of the matter is simple,
People are not poetry.
And I know you wish you weren't awkward,
That sweet words easily rolled right off your tongue,
But your time here's too short just to worry,
How each individual sentence is strung,
It's okay to be rough around the edges,
To be bruised up and broken and scarred,
But it's not acceptable to let people tell you,
That it's a reason to change who you are,
Your hair doesn't always sit neatly,
The way a poem sits so neatly in lines,
And sometimes you might feel like a word,
That nobody has yet or learned to define,
You might not be a star that lights the darkness,
Or a bird that can teach us to soar,
But it's alright because you are too complex,
To be crammed into one simple metaphor,
It's okay not to know what you're doing,
Since your feelings don't all have to rhyme,
Though a poem once complete is eternal,
You have the freedom to change over time,
You're much more than can ever be written,
And there is no title to say, "This Is Me",
You can't be trapped in the lines of a notebook,
Because people are not poetry.

Depression does not always mean
Beautiful girls shattering at the wrists,
A glorified, heroic battle for your sanity,
Or mothers that never got the chance to say good-bye.

Sometimes depression means
Not getting out of bed for three days,
Because your feet refuse to believe
That they will not break upon impact with the ground.

Sometimes depression means
That summoning the willpower,
To go downstairs and do the dishes,
Is the most impressive thing you accomplish all week.

Sometimes depression means
Faking a smile
To those who ask if you're alright,
Because it's the most convincing mask you can wear.

Sometimes depression means
Lying on the floor staring at the ceiling for hours,
Because you can't convince your mind and body
That they're capable of movement.

Sometimes depression means
Not being able to write poetry, or anything, for weeks,
Because the only words you have to offer the world
Are trapped and drowning and I swear I'm trying.

Sometimes depression means
That every single bone in your body aches,
But you have to keep going through the motions,
Because calling into work depressed isn't allowed.

Sometimes depression means
Ignoring every phone call for a month,
Because yes, they have the right number,
But you're not the person they're calling for, not anymore.

The teardrops run down
And fall off her nose.
She cries in hidden places,
Where nobody goes.

You can follow the tracks,
From her eyes to her chin.
Years upon years,
Of letting "it" win.

And her eyes tell a story
Of anger and pain.
You believe that she's happy,
But you should look again.

The scars of her past,
Hidden under her clothes,
Are a roadmap to places,
That nobody knows.

Her smile is now painted,
She's a master of disguise.
But you can see it all,
If you just look in her eyes.

I've seen this girl named Ana.
She's pretty, thin, and tall.
She has the smallest frame I've ever seen,
And not one single flaw.

I met this girl named Ana.
She introduced herself today.
She seems very nice and kind.
She says she wants to stay and that she's here for me.

I know this girl named Ana.
She's so perfect, the exact opposite of me.
I'm so fat compared to her.
But she says she'll make me skinny too.

I'm friends with this girl named Ana.
She told me to start eating less, so I did.
Now I hate the person I see in the miror.
My life is becoming a mess, but Ana says it's okay.

I'm best friends with this girl named Ana.
I want her to always stay.
Everybody else has already left,
But Ana will never stray.

The only one I listen to is this girl named Ana.
She's so smart and full of advice.
I'm starting to get smaller and Ana says it's good.
My well-being and health is the only sacrifice.

I'm terrified of this girl named Ana.
She won't get out of my head.
It finally occurred to me,
She only wants me dead.

I hate this girl named Ana.
She makes my life a living hell.
Can anyone hear my quiet screams?
Cause she won't let me tell.

My worst enemy is this girl named Ana.
She's a demon in my head.
She seemed so nice at first, trying to help me.
But I was so mislead.

I'm a prisoner to this girl named Ana.
I'm captive to her will.
I can't help but do what she says.
How can I be so fat, still?

My murderer is this girl named Ana.
She starved me to my grave.
My heart finally stopped beating.
I was just too exhausted to continue being brave.

What if I told you
I want to die?
That I'm tired of living,
of being alive?

What if I said
it gets worse at night?
The thoughts get louder
and everything seems wrong

What if I told you I lied
when I said I was fine?
When I said I'm fine, how are you,
I was actually crying on the inside.

What if I lied
and said everything is alright
No, I'm not crying,
I swear I'm fine.

What if I tried to take my life?
Would you send me to rehab?
Hoping the doctors would fix me,
and everything would be fine?

What if I told you hope is dumb?
That hope is a stupid thing to have
Because when I have hope,
everything falls apart.

What if I told you I lied, again, when I said I was better?
That I only said that so you wouldn't worry?
Well,
I did.

What if I said to you,
I've hated myself since the age of 9?
That I wish you could've helped,
before it was too late?

What if I succeeded in killing myself?
I doubt anyone would cry.
Would you even care,
If I took my own life?