So many people, who don’t truly suffer with depression or some forms of depression, realize what it means to be functional with these illnesses.
There are people who will tell you to just “be happy,” “Shake it off,” etc.
But they don’t realize that the struggle is so deep, that at some point in your life you don’t feel able to or deserving of having friends who don’t struggle. But they also don’t realize how hard it is to have friends who do struggle as well.
Friends who don’t struggle will try to understand or accommodate, or they will be those unfortunate few that tell you to just “get over it.” And those who do have similar experiences are always going through their stuff, so they can’t be there for you when you really need them because they are trying to survive as well.
So what to do about this conundrum? Who the fuck knows. If you’re lucky, you have continuous support from friends and family and you keep a stream of hope alive even in the darkest moments of the wretched disease.
But when you have nothing or no one to go to at any given time… that’s when the darkness rears its ugly head. That’s when you are literally faced with life or death.
No one who hasn’t gone through this will understand this concept. It may even scare them or make them think you are an even bigger freak than they thought.
Nights are the worst for me. That’s when all of the sadness and desperation come seeping out. That’s when I know I’m alone. But that’s also when, I am teaching myself, that I need to channel those thoughts and feelings. That’s when I write.
My poems start to shoot out of me like the blood out of one’s arm when they have reached no other outlet. That’s when I may hurt myself just to feel pain. Or when I cry until I can’t any more. But more and more that’s the time where I have to remember it’s not like this all of the time and I write.
The worst thought for someone who is ready to end it is that slight hope of hanging on, but fearing we will only end up back in this place of desperation.
I’m learning that this is ok. Don’t get me wrong it hurts like fucking hell, but everyday and every night it passes. It is painful and I admit so many nights I want out.
I don’t begrudge anyone who needs to take that way out either. But so far I hang onto a glimmer of hope. And even if I have to cut, cry and write sad poetry all at the same time I do it. Just to keep going until tomorrow.
So, if you are like me and you feel like you are “just done,” I hope that you find as many outlets as you need to get you through the night. And try to hold on. I hang by my fingernails most nights, and I do get tired of it, but the sun comes up and the day is new. So, I make the best of what I can, hoping that the cure or at least help that I need will come to pass.
B.A. Wilcox © 