Sometimes I have good days, days where I am lead down the path of life with happiness holding my hand.
But then there are the bad days. Days where I feel like I am being drug down to the depths by weights tied around my ankles by depressed hands and the idea that I will never be good enough.
I am wandering down a lamplit street at night, kept company by insomnia and followed closely by depression who thought it necessary to bring along anxiety and loneliness.

“It’s a choice to be this way, you just have to decide and will yourself to get better.”
Like depression is merely a switch you left on when you hurried out of the house in the morning.
“I’m sorry, it will get better, it’s okay, everything will be fine,”
As if they think empty spaces inside can be filled by emptier words,
Because they see the world through rose tinted glasses, and my lenses are broken and cracked.

I want to get better, I have to get better but part of me is afraid of leaving my depression because it is the only understanding, the boyfriend I’ve always wanted, the only relationship I’ve ever had, always there so I am afraid of letting go.
I don’t want to be more alone.

Medications and self help books, tools trying to crack and sculpt the shell of my mind.
Why aren’t they working?
I don’t really know.
“Well, maybe you just aren’t trying hard enough. Try harder.”
I try so hard to think positive thoughts, to be a friend to myself, but the words echo uselessly in my head, bouncing around but they never stick.
They are drowned out by the overpowering voice of negativity; you are lying.

Happiness should be easy.
All you have to do is pursue it.
Well if happiness is something you can run to, then I am still learning to walk.
Get up, dust yourself off, and try again.
But I am getting weighed down, with every mistake, every failure, everything I’ve been told that really meant nothing but that I took extremely personally and thought about for days, it is heavy.

They ask if anything is wrong.
I say no.
Because even if something is, I am at a loss as for why.
I don’t even understand the tangled mess mind has become, but all I can do is try to untangle the knots.
I am viewed as weak, a victim trapped in my own head and held hostage by my thoughts.
But I am the own who pushes myself back up, I am the one who has to dry my tears, calm the panic attacks, and hug the broken and injured parts of myself back together.
Can’t they understand that?