I don't know when my depression started.
Maybe it was the weeks on end spent in bed,
Or maybe it was the desperate wish to sleep forever.
Maybe it was the day spent thinking I'd be better off dead,
Or maybe it was the apathy towards every part of life.
Maybe it started with the cuts on my legs,
Or maybe it started with the desire to open my veins.

It might have started with her death,
or perhaps even the burgeoning concept of mortality.
It might have begun earlier, who knows?
Maybe it was when they threw me down and took the air from my lungs.
My brain began to understand how hopeless the struggle is,
How pointless it is to try and stop it, to control your own life.

I don't know when my depression started,
But it feels like it's been with me a lifetime.
It's hard to tell when the numbness hangs around like a fog,
Never gives up, calling me towards the relief of death,
Tempts me to despair,
Telling me of the futility of life, and the guilt within.

I don't know when I began waking up each morning
Only for the sake of others
Lamenting that I had survived the night.
I don't know when death became easier than life.

But I know one thing,
I have hope.
I trust that the Lord will take me safely home.