Sometimes in the dead of night, I thought about dying. It wasn’t always because everything felt overwhelming. Sometimes it was more a desire to see if anyone would care, if anything would change.
We are such insignificant lives on this earth. One among billions of others. A few of us will make a lasting impact, and they’ll go down in the annals of history, but most of us are forgotten with time.
Sometimes, I felt like a ghost. I re-enacted the same role every day, went through the same motions, and sometimes it felt like the lives around me would go on in the same way even if I wasn’t there. Would it matter if I wasn’t there to give my mother plastic smiles and saccharine words? No one would care whether anyone was behind a closed door. Would it truly matter to anyone if I disappeared? Would my death leave a lasting impression as my life never did? Or would I be quickly forgotten, as fleeting as a ray of sunshine in winter?
Sometimes, I felt an almost uncontrollable urge to find out.
If you scream into the silence, and nobody hears you, then did you scream at all?
How much can a person change? How much of them is an intrinsic part of their personality, that will bend like a blade of grass in the wind, but will always return to its original stance?
Where is the line between what is real and what is fake?
Living with depression is difficult.
It’s a thick presence that hangs in the air, invisible but tangible. It’s heavy, inescapable, constantly there. It’s like cigarette smoke, it clings to you even when you’re not aware of it.
It’s the sickness that nobody sees, that nobody will be sympathetic to. Not even yourself. They’re just feelings, aren’t they? You should be able to control it, stop it from taking over you. Do we control when we’re happy? When we laugh? It should be easy to find joy in life. There are so many good things, so much to be thankful for.
But it’s so, so hard.
Living with depression is never knowing when the black will hit, when something you do or say so carelessly will mean so much.
Is it harder on the ones who have it, or those who are helpless to stop it?
The third time it happens, it’s not shock that fills her. Not even disbelief. It’s more a sort of tiredness, the desire to pull the covers over her head and forget about everything. And underneath that weariness, an old hurt, a familiar feeling of betrayal. Continue reading
It was war. It was not glory and heroics, not good against evil, not the brave who would win. It was blood and fire and smoke and death. God, so much death.
Daily Prompt: For many of us, winter is blooming into spring, or fall hardening into winter. Which season do you most look forward to?
Well, it’s approaching winter over here – not that you could tell. The saying that Melbourne has four seasons in one day is quite true. But yes, finally: winter!