Depression

It is a blue wall.

It is a tightness in the part of my brain that is right inside the ears.

It is a tunnel.

It is the lie: I feel fine.

It is nostalgia for more of the same.

I get so tired of this, but when I’m most tired about it, I’m the least able to move.

It is quicksand, except no thrashing.

It’s wondering if you should be taking more medicine but not wanting to.

It’s thinking you should be able to snap out of it.

It’s frustration and anger in feeling that you are flawed in this precise way.

Can it be written away?  Can it be prayed away?  Can it be talked, and talked, and talked away?

It is a feeling of emptiness right behind my cheekbones, making it impossible for my eyes to move the way they normally do.

I snap at the kids, at my wife.  What a terrible knowledge to know you are being mean.

I don’t think it can be written, prayed, talked away.  But I do those things.  I do them better when I’m not like this.

(o)