depression

This is a love letter to my closest friends.

It won’t seem like it at first, but stay the course.

Life is morbid; it’s a series of traumas – some small, short and sharp; some so poignant and altering that they cut you off at the knees, immediately cauterising the wounds so you continue breathing even though you wish you hadn’t. We have no choice but to collect these experiences like tiny treasures we don’t want, hoisted on our backs like our most valuable possessions. We keep these in chests, with many locks interwoven in heavy chains, down deep.

Some of us are lucky enough to bear witness to these tiny treasures and are able to continue to tell our stories.

I share anecdotes often, based on my collected treasures. They’ve been branded into my psyche and occassionally the resulting burns scab up and itch. It’s when they itch so terribly that the load becomes unbearable, I speak out the trauma so it leaves temporarily, escaping from my lips and into the atmosphere, dissipating like smoke in the air.

The people closest to me know that my most successful coping strategies are…well, them. I talk about my treasure. About the things that brandish blades into my oesophagus, the things the bury themselves into my temples and furrow deep behind my eyes.

About the feelings of abandonment. About the hurt that I’ve caused through reckless words, careless actions and bouts of mania – and the guilt. There’s always guilt, whether reasonably applied or not; since I was small, I’ve carried the sins of those that came before me even though I know I have never had any ownership – eventually those that came before will die and I continue to live in the hope that the guilt will be buried with them.

About the day more than a decade ago, I found out my closest friend had died.

About the faltering relationships I once held so close as a child, that have been irreparably damaged.

This is salvation. This is reprieve.

And in that there is lightness. I discovered through many years of being medicated and being in therapy that the most effective way to deal with the itch was to talk.

And I talk a lot. I make this assertion knowing that every single person that walks a similar journey has different coping mechanisms.

They’ve shifted the burden from the hip I carry mine on, to their shoulders to even out the weight of it all – this is perfectly acceptable, I don’t pass judgement on those whose coping strategies differ from mine.

I’m grateful for the safety that enraptures me when I’m hand-in-hand with my friends as they delve mindlessly down the path of the labyrinth that is me, to find the chest where the treasures are kept – because I asked them to accompany me on an odyssey.

I am grateful for those that ventured down, down, down with me where my treasures reside, braving the ghouls that hide in the darkest parts of me looking for excuses to start wars, to pick the locks and let the treasure tumble unceremoniously to the floor.

I’m grateful that once the chains are untangled and the locks are discarded and set aside, and the lid groans angrily as its lifted and the treasures are discovered, exposed and shared – that they stay.

That they stay and help me heave the treasures back into the chest, wiping beads of sweat from their brows and smile while I return the chains and locks to their rightful places.

That they stay and drag me screaming back from oblivion to the fire to warm my cold, dead hands.

That they stay and crawl with me towards the tendrils of eternal sunshine.

I love you.

I am forever grateful that you will always help me to find the light.

My brain is full today. My heart aches today. I’m carrying the weight and burden of the hurt currently being experienced by so many people that I love truly and I need to place it somewhere.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been inspired to write anything; I mean, I don’t even know if inspired is the right term, because it’s not a sparkling desire to share anything with anyone in particular.

Right now it’s just a fervent need to get out the things that are floating around in my head late on a Saturday afternoon, to put them in some logical order and give them meaning.

At present, they’re just independent words in multi-coloured san serif fonts bouncing around the chasm that is me.

Someone I’ve known for a long time told me last night that by his estimation, I was 99% neutral good, and the remaining 1% of my character that is chaotic evil was nullified by this. This in itself to me is kinda strange conceptually, but it’s caused me to do some pretty intense thinking since.

But. It’s the 1% that keeps me up at night. It’s the 1% that stops me from believing I’m a good person. It’s the 1% that has me staring into space, agonising about everything.

I realise in writing that, I’m exposing myself as an incredibly and highly-emotional person. I used to think that this was a character flaw, but I realise now that this is what makes me human and is a distinctive part of my ego or self. It’s why I initiate conversation with people when I feel their energy shift. I recognise darkness in others as its so familiar and know that in these times, all we need is the suggestion of a shaft of light to echo through the black. These conversations are usually cumbersome words, spilling over each other and falling into the atmosphere, spoken in stilted phrasing and with nervous hesitation.

So you know – I see you’re broken. We recognise each other. I understand that you are pulling back the curtain, to let me understand how your machinations work. I understand you are vulnerable. I see you. I hear you.

Willingly, I carry your grief like ghosts. I haul them around with me, like they’re chained at my wrists and at my ankles. They follow me from room to room, house to house, haunting every single space I occupy.

These ghosts are the 1%.

They’re hurt, shame, disgust, apathy, remorse.

They’re agony, grief, guilt and resentment.

They’re hate, self-loathing, disregard and torture.

They follow me like shadows settling at dusk.