You ask, “What’s depression like?”

He says, “It’s like drowning. Except you can see everyone around you breathing.”
She says, “It’s like you are screaming as loud as you can, and no one can hear.”
They say, “In your perception of the world around you, it’s always cloudy.”

And it is all true.
Except when it’s not.

Except when it’s living in a body that has been taken over by a black, sluggish monster.
Except when it’s seeing the colors of the world and not comprehending the color.
Except when it’s your favorite food and pushing the plate away because you don’t deserve it.
Except when it’s an hourly battle between yourself and yourself.
Except when it’s a daily war between yourself and your reflection.
Except when it’s always feeling sad and not being able to explain why.
Except when it’s feeling nothing and doing nothing and being expected to explain why.

It is all true.
Except when it’s not.

Because depression is something that cannot be explained.
Only felt.

Breathing
Moving
Looking around
Doing all these things
Focus drowning out the sound
To identify one sense
Is to ignore the rest
I'm so overwhelmed
Done trying my best
Can't think straight
A world beyond my chair
A thousand miles of smiling eyes
Mocking me there
They're lined up in a row
Stepping aside as I walk
Eyes unmoving
They gasp and gawk
And I want to hunch over
I want to cry and scream
But I keep going
Because I guess it seems
It's not normal
To simply break down
To suddenly cave
And throw yourself on the ground
To bang your fists
Against your head
To tell a bystander
That you wish you were dead
All these things
In my dizzy mind
Screaming at me
All the time

I love when it rains,
The sound
The smell

But I also love it because I know everyone else is
Crying too

Rain is gods tears
And he weeps tonight

If I show you these scars what will you think?
The purple ones on my thigh,
the thin pink ones on my stomach,
the thick, raised ones on my arm,
and the small red ones on my wrist.

If I tell you the reasons what will you say?
The self hatred in my heart,
the numb feelings in my soul,
the racing thoughts in my head,
and the moving fingers of my hand.

If I ask you to love me will you tell the truth?
If I ask myself to love me will I tell the truth?
In the end will I go back to what I know?
In the end will I go back to the blades who hold my heart?
The blades who have hold of my soul?