Let me tell you a story, an ugly story, because depression is not beautiful. People describe it as shattered wrists, exploding glass fragments of fragile things tragically destroyed. It’s not like that. It’s described as a gentle silence, a subtle observance that makes you noticeable, desirable, ripe for the saving. It’s not like that. Depression is not beautiful. Depression is skin slick with filth, hair tangled up in grease, because I haven’t had the energy to shower in 5 days or change my clothes in 4. It’s stained underwear, uncomfortable itch, because I ran out of toilet paper last week and I can’t bear to nod at the cashier. Depression is shouting, irritation like a virus, watching my mother cry because I told her all the things she should never have to hear. It’s guilt, twisting rage and numbness, watching my hands shake the beer in my glass and hoping it’ll drown me. Depression is loneliness, desperation, because who can find you in a bookstore or coffee shop if you never leave your house? It’s coming home burning with shame, embarrassment, because he said hi today but what did I really expect to happen when I’m too tired to lift my eyes to his? Depression is mold, god awful smell, whatever expired three months ago still rotting in my fridge, filling my house with a weight like death. It’s eating half of a pie, or nothing at all, laying on the indent I’ve made in the couch with a tomato-sauce stained shirt and last weeks crumbs in my clothes. Depression is not beautiful. It’s not rewarding. It’s not lovable, unique, interesting, tragic, frail, wistful, It’s not a story waiting to be told, or a misunderstood soul. It’s hell. It’s always been hell. This is it’s ugly story.
A.M. (via thestarsarebeautifultonight)
