Depression doesn’t normally give you the choice in when it comes upon you.
You don’t get to say…
“I’m not going to be depressed today, because I choose not to be”.
It’s not a matter of “fake it till you make it”, either.
It can be a sneaky bastard, too.
It doesn’t always hit you over the head with a brick, driving you to your knees in sorrow.
It can be slow.
Crawling up on you a little at a time.
You are going on, every day, with your normal routines…work, home, etc.
Not realizing that somewhere in there, you’ve forgotten a household chore – and now, here it is, 3 weeks later, and there’s mail all over the floor & piled on the counter as well, some you’ve opened, some you haven’t, but all – largely ignored, because you’re too apathetic to pay bills and answer invitations.
There are dust bunnies floating across the floor, because you haven’t vacuumed in weeks, and cats shed.
There are dishes in the sink.
You’re almost out of knives in the silverware drawer, so you’ll have to wash the dishes soon, you know, but – – apathy.
Depressíon.
And no one outside of your house has a clue – because no one ever sees it.
You have high-functioning depression.
You have created very convincing masks, and everyone believes you when you say you’re “fine” .
And on the weekends… Nary a word.
Silence rules your world – you don’t speak. Not even to the cats, because, why bother?
The one time you let your voice out is…surprisingly, to sing – with your mp3 player going, earbuds tight in your ears, sitting on your front step, eyes closed, not caring who hears you singing out loud for Goddess’ sake!
Well, singing helps with anxiety, & you’ve had your fair share of that lately, too, so, go you. Who gives a shit if the neighbors all heard you belting out P!nk’s stuff, and some of Mike Shinoda’s newest songs?
No one called the cops, at any rate.
But, it doesn’t really help…not really.
There are small moments of laughter, you smile, sure…
But that black cloud lurks, lingers, clings…to your every movement.
Like a child’s fingers tugging on your pants’ leg, you always know its presence.
Even when others do not.
And most never do.
I am a master of disguise.
And I say nary a word, most days.
Brea's Air 