It's never easy to talk about depression. For some reason people worry that saying it's name will make it spiral down on top of you, and so they lay any mention of chronic sadness to rest. Letting it fester.

When people ask about depression they expect simple synonyms like: sadness, tired, unmotivated, weak, faking, unreal, imaginary; for example. They expect quick metaphors of sinking beneath deep waves, and weights being placed on thin chests. But it's sometimes hard to believe the truth of it all.

Because truth is, depression is not like anything you would expect. It's like having the winter Alaskan sun set in between your rib cage, like having melting ice floes sliding between your teeth, it's like having cosmos placed within your head and you begin to wonder where people really go once they are dead. It's seeing caskets instead of fingers, grave markers in place of toes, with sun-dried heat melting your heels till they look like cracked crayons on an elementary school table.

For six months each day felt like six drawn out years of playing an apocalypse, of wondering if it's really worth it to bend your knees and get out of bed. For six months I plastered the greatest **** smile for each day, so that it was me, not a star in the sky that heated the Sahara, only to come home to avalanche covered snow banks that quickly settled to become my home.

The issue with feeling sad for days, or weeks, or months, or years; is that no one understands till they understand it for themselves and even then; there seems to be little they can do to help.

The truth is, I don't know what day my body began feeling inner peace again. I don't know what time my bones seemed to slip back into each cradled socket. But I got there. You'll get there too.