You are, without a doubt, the rudest guest I’ve ever had the dishonor of hosting.
You came uninvited, and even if you were ever invited, well you came too early. You ran into this home that I had organized for myself and you messed it all up. You’re very messy, you hide things around every corner of my home that come as inconvenient surprises whenever I try to get things done. You litter a whole lot too, leaving your shit around for me to clean up.
You make me so tired. You run around constantly grabbing things, putting them in my arms for me to hold onto, and it becomes really heavy after a while ya’know? I feel like I always need to rest from you but whenever I get back up I feel even more exhausted somehow.
Do you never sleep? Do you not take breaks? Will you never give me a break?
I’m guessing no.
As if it weren’t enough that you were never invited in the first place, you also gave yourself the permission to stay the night. Nights. More than just one. You’re terribly active during the night.
You lie on my back, weighing me down and making me heavy. You whisper myths, or perhaps “myths” is the wrong word. You tell me things that I would never believe in broad daylight, but somehow they seem to make more sense during the night, in the dark.
Sometimes you smell like something else, you smell of fear and anxiety, like what I imagine paranoia would smell like. Slowly and on shaking bambi legs you reveal yourself to me as something more than just depression, as something more than just sadness and exhaustion.
You have overstayed your unplanned visit, depression. No matter how much I’ve tried to make you leave you refuse to budge, you have planted your roots in my bed and you have left your smell on my pillows.
I’m felling alone, now that you’re here all the time no one seems to want to come around.
Do you feel alone?
I mean, you must be feeling alone, since you’re inviting friends over now! Now we have another person living in my house. Uninvited. Her name is Anxiety and I hate her guts. She sleeps right in front of my door and makes it so hard for me to go places and see people. She chews on my phone cords so I can’t talk to people right, well I mean I can if I really try but it’s very very hard to get my message across.
Though I must give it to Anxiety, she’s very convincing.
You know, I was never really afraid to talk to the doctor over the phone or ask the cashier where the pretzels were, but Anxiety managed to put the fear of god in me!
How did she do that?
All she had to really say was that I would embarrass myself and be made fun of. What a character she is, that Anxiety.
I don’t really like any of you; you’re both annoying and get in the way of me doing basic human tasks. You’ve slowed down the rhythm of my drum and taken the needle off of my record player. You make me lay in bed too much and won’t let me clean my room, my passions are now just forgotten hobbies and my friends are frail fragments of my memory because you won’t let me see them.
And sometimes I think you’re leaving.
I think I’ve finally done a good enough job at ignoring you and you’ve gotten bored of my humble abode and you’re about to up and leave. And you do!
You leave and I can finally breather again. The imprint of my body is no longer left on my bed and I can finally see my bedroom floor because my old dirty clothes aren’t covering it anymore. My guitar gives out a cloud of dust when I finally play it again, but at least I’m playing.
And just as I’m about to replace the old chewed up phone cords that Anxiety ruined, you’re back.
You’re back here and I’m back in bed. Im covering my eyes for I do not want to see you again and you’re covering my floor, again. I’m leaving mental distractions like mousetraps to catch Anxiety and she’s leaving splinters of my broken guitar to trap me. You are back in my home and it seems as if you’re here to stay.
Dear depression, you are fluid. You can whisper or you can shout, you come at 3am or 3pm, when it’s sunny or when it’s cloudy. You trick me to think you are gone and let me feel light for sometimes just a minute, sometimes for something that feels like a lifetime.
Depression, you are not me, but you are a part of me.
You are a part that easily comes and hardly goes.
some day I will get rid of you, and you shall not be missed in my home.