I feel you, my depression, creeping in again, gradually.
You never come banging down doors; you prefer to move back in piece by piece – first bringing the self-doubt, then piling in the emotional baggage coupled with dread.
You whisper in my ear like a lover but it’s never the sweet nothings I expect.
You tell me I’m unlovable and that any time a plan changes it’s because nobody wants to spend time with me.
You wait until I’m sat in front of the mirror to tell me my hair is too frizzy, my skin too patchy and that my body is too lumpy, too angular, too thin, too wobbly all in one.
You slur incoherently from one bad notion to the next, and I know you make even less sense than a drunk, but I just cannot stop listen to you.
You stop me from leaving my bed, from changing my clothes, then tell me I’m lazy and disgusting.
You make me control my eating, and only eat to not be found out, then hiss that I’m gaunt and a mess.
You make me paranoid that everyone is talking about me, that my friends are only humouring me, that I’m a burden on my family and that I’m ruining my relationship. Then, you tell me to pick myself up and stop being so pathetic when I cry cos I’m scared my boyfriend will dump me.You with your twisted words and suggestions make me want to carve into my flesh or drown out everything with a bottle of wine until I can’t think.I didn’t want to think. I don’t anymore, it’s all you.My favourite thing to do at the moment, the only thing I ever want to do, is sleep. To stop remembering, stop the living nightmares and just black out. Please let me do that.Worst of all, you robbed me of so much.You take the happiness from my eyes and stop me from laughing until I double over.You steal my will to do anything.
You don’t let me write – you take the words and leave me shaking if I try and get any feelings onto paper. You drum inside of me ‘you stupid bitch, nobody wants to read your drivel, give up’ until I believe it.You leave me wanting to do nothing.My greatest love is reading and I can’t even concentrate on that.
You took someone who was so confident – the gobby loudmouth with an opinion and the biggest cackling laugh, who loved nothing more than talking crap in the pub or curling up and watching crap TV – and made her your hollow shell.The perfect host for self-hatred.But I will not let you win, this is not the end.Getting help and taking time out to work out my depression is not weakness, asking for help gives me more people to shoot you down.
I will not crumble. You will not win.
Originally Published at Metro Online
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