There's a kind of surreality that comes with depression. I used to hate that word - depression. I used to be afraid of it, as if naming my nightmare would make it more real. I've become accustomed to its manipulation, now - the way its self-hatred coils inside you, the way its fear winds itself around each of your ribs, the way it twines against your collarbones and strangles you and steals your breath, the way it makes a home of your body by becoming your body, by becoming you.
Your parents always warn you about strangers, but what if the stranger is you?