Inside a Body

How do you tell people? How do you tell them that you’re exhausted even though you slept for 10 hours? How do you tell them that you need a break from talking and smiling and simply being near them? How do you tell them that although you love them, you so desperately need to be alone tonight?

Act like a hurricane so no one can ever break you again.

How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?

Depression isn’t drinking coffee and shaky hands holding a cigarette or writing poetry late at night. It’s not sleeping in cold winter mornings or a book store visit where you meet the love of your life and they somehow put the broken pieces back together with a smile. Depression is staying home all the time and sleeping for 4 days in a row. It’s greasy hair because you haven’t showered in a week. It’s not eating. It’s tear stained pillows and trash covering every inch of your room because the thought of cleaning it makes you feel sick. It’s a pill when you wake up. It’s like slow moving traffic in your brain you want so desperately to get out off it you wanna find the nearest exit but you’re stuck. It’s therapy every Wednesday. It’s telling your friends you’re busy when in reality you can’t handle the thought of leaving your bed. It’s a report card with all failing grades and trying to explain to your mom that you’ll do better next time when you both know that’s a lie.