Depression doesn't like it. He doesn't like when I smile, or accidentally crack a laugh. Rather, he likes when I take him on as my full identity.
He loves when I weep from the loneliness, when I curse God for making me this way, when I slit my wrists to feel something, anything besides the numbness. When I daydream about my funeral. He feeds and grows strength off my tears, he makes himself home in the crevices of my empty heart. He seeks to destroy.

Jesus doesn't like it. He doesn't like when I'm sitting alone on my bathroom floor with a handful of pills, or when I can't breath at night because the tears have stopped me up. Rather, he likes when I take him on as my full identity. He loves the way my face lights up at shooting stars or a beautiful sunset, he adores the sound of my laugh, he loves how music is the way we communicate, he loves when I worship him, and he loves to love me.

And he is stronger. And unlike depression, he doesn't need to gain strength. He himself is strength and the battle is already won. O Death where is your victory? O death where is your sting? For my savior is risen and he has redeemed.

I am fighting for the day
I will be happy at 2am,
my soul content at 3am,
and my heart at peace at 4am.

When I achieve this,
then I know I have made it.

No longer afraid of the dark,
insomnia replaced with rest,
my own thoughts stop haunting,
an end to the whispered weeping.

When I find this,
then I will know success.

Loneliness doesn't know my name,
depression loses his chance to invade,
love finds a home inside my ribcage,
my empty heart has been filled.

When I know this,
I have reached the finish.

*~ Matthew Walker ~

I used to pray that I’d never be loved by
anyone I couldn’t love back,
but then I remembered how many mountains
I grew strong enough to climb when
you didn’t love me back
and I realized that
there’s no use in praying for
the absence of pain
because it will always find you
whether it be through sunburn or aching silence
and broken bones grow back stronger
so I won’t pray you’ll never get hurt
I’ll pray you clean out the cuts on your
elbows and learn to not pick at
the scabs on your knees
and that you’ll stand up more times
than the wind knocks you down
And that you’ll find ways to appreciate
the circles beneath your eyes, but
still hold onto the hope that one day
you will count your scars and smile because
you are proud of how far you’ve come
and how much you’ve grown, and
you’re not just surviving, you are alive.

03:00
When I think about never speaking to him again, I picture a girl walking in a crowd that’s all moving in the same direction, and then suddenly she drops everything she’s holding and turns around and starts running as fast as she can, smiling and pushing past everyone till finally she reaches an open space and her face looks like sunshine as her hair blows behind her in the wind and she’s free she’s free, oh God, she’s free.

03:15
But then I think about walking into a doctor’s office ten years from now and sitting on a cold metal table, staring at my legs dangling off the edge, waiting. And then I look up as the door opens slowly, not expecting to see his tattooed arms hidden in a lab coat, but there he is and, oh God, his eyes haven’t changed, and I can’t breathe, and he just stands there, looking at me like an unfinished sentence. Then I’d have to let him put a stethoscope to my chest and listen to my heart and I wonder what it’d sound like, if it would sound like messy half beats of missing him. If he’d be able to tell. If he’d care.

03:30
Or maybe the next time I see him, if I ever see him again, we’ll both be whole versions of ourselves, content and in good places, our lives all sorted out and how we always hoped they’d be. And maybe we’d be able to talk about the weather and our kids and the lives we created apart. And maybe I’d be able to look at him with only feelings of pleasant acquaintance and relative indifference, not seeing the boy I fell for when I should’ve been focused on catching myself.

03:45
And I know I should find comfort in thinking about how one day I may look at him and feel nothing,

04:00
but it’s four in the morning and I don’t want to let go.

I've been waiting out these rainy days
with my head down
and my ears waiting eagerly for your call

I had my own whimsical hopes about you
and how maybe we could be
because I liked the way you don't say much
and how you only smile if someone actually deserves it
and when you sit alone in the farthest corner of the gardens
because it's exactly where you wished to be

I was captivated by your mystery
and the possibilities I had told myself were more than a good chance
My hopes built higher after you mentioned one evening alone together
they peaked, and pointed to a plateau of so much fantasy I could finally see clearly

There is always a caveat in these situations
and mine starts with a but,
but, you rarely look at me when I speak
but, you never even held my hand
but, you never ask about me
but, I can hardly get a word in when we're alone
but, I can't be with someone who doesn't value me

I've spent my entire life building up fantastical stories and telling myself that boys liked me because it was the only way that I could feel like I was worth something.
My main objective for as long as I can remember has been changing myself to make it easier for people to receive me,
but i'm not a ******* package waiting to be delivered to price charming's doorstep just so he can open me up, use me, and throw me aside.
No longer will I pretend that I am not a whole being.
The parts of me that are not soft and pink are still worth something.
I have baggage and rough patches but I think those scars are beautiful.
My thoughts may come out scattered but they're still worth hearing,
and I cannot go chasing down the love of someone who doesn't care to understand that I am more than just a sum of a few pretty parts.

“No matter what I’m doing throughout the day, the memories will flood me with full force and without warning. It all comes back in flashes…you would think as time goes on the memories of him would get dimmer and fainter.

unfortunately though, it could have been yesterday. I remember it all, every detail of our relationship..and it tortures me.

if only I could induce myself with amnesia, have him and the nostalgia he brings wash away through my bloodstream.

every word. every touch. every night. every day. every laugh. every text. every tear. everything. gone.

because all of these things come back to me so fresh in my mind, but he never does.

and this, my friend, is what it means to be haunted by a broken heart.”