"Mom, my depression is a shape-shifter.
One day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear,
the next, it's the bear.
On those days I play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
I call the bad days the "dark days".
Mom says, "Try lighting candles."
But when I see a candle, I see the flesh of a church,
the flicker of a flame,
sparks of a memory younger than noon.
I am standing beside her open casket.
It it the moment that I learn every person I ever come to know will someday die.
Besides Mom, I'm not afraid of the dark,
perhaps that's part of the problem.
Mom says, "I thought the problem was that you can't get out of bed?"
I can't.
Anxiety hold me a hostage inside of my house,
inside of my head.
Mom says, "Where did anxiety come from?"
Anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town
depression felt obligated to being to the party.
Mom, I am the party.
Only I am a party I don't want to be at.
Mom says, "Why don't you try going to actual parties? See your friends."
Sure, I make plans.
I make plans, but I don't wanna go.
I make plans because I know I should want to go,
I know sometimes I would have wanted to go,
It's just,
Not that much fun having fun when you don't want to have fun, Mom.
You see mom, each night Insomnia sweeps me up in his arms,
dips me in the kitchen in the small glow of the stove-light.
Insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.
Mom says, "Try counting sheep."
But my mind can only count reasons to stay awake at night.
So, I go for walks,
but my stuttering kneecaps clank like silver spoons held in strong arms with loose wrists,
they ring in my ears like clumsy church bells, reminding me that I am sleepwalking on an ocean of happiness that I cannot baptize myself in.
Mom says, "Happy is a decision."
But my happy is as hollow as a pin pricked egg.
My happy is a high fever that will break.
Mom says I am so good at making something out of nothing and then flat our asks me if I am afraid of dying.
No!
I am afraid of living!
Mom, I am lonely!
I think I learned when dad left how to turn the anger into lonely, the lonely into busy,
so, when I say I've been super busy,
I mean I've been falling asleep watching Sports Center on the couch to avoid confronting the empty side of my bed.
But depression always drags me back to my bed until my bones are forgotten fossils of a skeleton sunken city.
My mouth a boneyard of teeth broken from biting down on themselves.
The hollow auditorium of my chest swoons with echoes of a heartbeat,
but I am a careless tourist here.
I will never truly know everywhere that I have been.
Mom still doesn't understand.
Mom!
Can't you see,
that neither can I?"
This poem does not belong to me, full rights credited to the rightful owner, Sabrina Benaim.
All rights go to Sabrina Benaim, the original author of this poem.