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.