The weirdest thing about depression is the sensation of feeling like you’re floating. I always thought depression would make me feel as if I were drowning, like I have no hope or possibility. I never really understood how something so dark could make you feel so buoyant.
It’s good, I guess. I know I’ll never drown, or that at least I’m alive. At least I have a feeling, something to hold on to.
But it doesn’t shake the feeling that I just don’t really exist.
It’s like I’m so dark that I’m a shadow, a ghost, and in some moments it feels like that’s all I’ll ever be even though I know it’s pure fiction.
I mean, I know I’m here. I couldn’t float if I wasn’t, but everyone just passes by like I’m not actually there sometimes. I feel like a mat on the ground that people trample over to pass from one place to another.
As much as I want to scream at myself that this feeling isn’t true, my depression usually wins.
According to my mental illness, it’s the only thing that recognizes that I exist—and it makes that existence hell.
Day in and day out, my depression is all that I can think about, all that I can be. I float on a sea of darkness that tries to sweep me away from the rest of humanity.
I watch storms come and go, try not to drown and start again. Everyone that tries to help me, the depression pushes in the opposite direction. I’m surrounded by a barrier that I can’t break down.
“They’re not here for you,” it says, “they don’t care enough.”
I know it’s not true, but I float on away anyway, convincing myself that they don’t care that I actually am right here.
I know I exist. I know I’m more than debris drifting along the ocean, but my depression is louder than my meekness.
So according to my depression I don’t exist. And until I shake this demon off my shoulders, it must be true.
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