These days I spend a lot of time not exactly wanting to die but just to be dead, maybe, to rest. There's a difference, or at least there used to be. I am regret. I am self-defeat. I think about thinking more than I used to.
I guess Depression will do that to you.
My body hurts. Aches, actually. It's constant. In my head, dull static But louder. Thumping rhymically. Like, really ******* loud all the ******* time. Things are heavy. My arms weigh far too much. My lungs are concrete. They pump stale air. My spine is sawdust. My spit is mud. Didn't my eyes used to be more blue?
Depression is an ******* who will do this to you.
My words used to be sharp and loud. Electric and strange, they tumbled out of me, like machine gun fire, a swarm of bees. Now I have to pry them loose, carefully like teeth.
Depression is mechanical and it's systematically destroying me.
Rough draft.
It has been a difficult few weeks. I thought writing would help. Who knew expressing thoughts on mental illness would prove to be so complicated and difficult?