Meninity - How it feels when depression attacks

When depression attacks, it leaves me frozen

I want to text you back. To let you know, I’m sorry for not staying in touch. To give you the reassurance that I’m alive, that I haven’t given up. But I don’t.

I want to walk outside and get some fresh air. Leave a room where my mind feels imprisoned. Roam through the infinite outdoors to set it free. But I don’t.

I want to go to work. Show everyone that I’m okay and can function. I don’t want anyone to know how much I struggle. I need to prove to myself that I can fight through this. But I don’t.

I want to write, lift weights, sign up for a Meetup, or call a friend. I want to channel this negative energy into something positive. I want to forget and maybe do something I can look on proudly, boost my day. But I don’t.

I don’t want to stay at home and watch Netflix. Scroll through YouTube videos. Look at porn. Eat in an unhealthy manner, ordering pizza and spending $30 on Ubereats. But I do.

I don’t want to call out, coming up with some explanation for why I’m taking a sick day. I don’t feel like figuring out how to hide what’s going on. I don’t want to skip work. But I do.

I don’t want to stare out of the window, watching that kid who drives around the parking lot in his battery-powered truck. Not showering, not leaving the bed, not willing to even get up for water. But I do.

I don’t want to stay silent. I hate questioning why any of you want to keep up with me. I don’t feel I deserve it. I don’t want you to reach out again weeks later, leaving me with another message to mull over.

But I do.

I don’t want to remember the bad times, regretting life all over again. But depression is overwhelming and holds so much power. I don’t understand what part of my mind it originates or how it comes to take me over.

I do know how depression gets it power. Sometimes it only takes a few words. Or a photo. Or a memory. Or a simple thought that works its way to becoming a complex and dangerous one.

Depression leaves me frozen. I’m unable to move, speak, think, live. So I stare at the wall, stare at the television, staring at my cell phone just long enough for a new day to start. But a new day doesn’t make things go away.

A new day allows me to be fluid for a while, until the next time. There is always a next time.

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