Dying to be Alive

Pawn

If my life were a game of chess, I would be a pawn, and depression would be the queen. Because with depression, I am insignificant. Indispensable. Worthless.

With depression, nothing else matters, except the depression.

It's like a permanent dark cloud above you, that you can't get rid of. There's no sunny skies, bluebirds or rainbows.

Imagine a permanent dementor just lurking in the background of your life. That's how depression feels.

And it's never just depression. It's everything and nothing all at once, it's suicide and self harm and hating yourself and the world and anger and sadness and all the bad things in the world rolled up into one big messy ball of hate.

You hate the world, how everything goes wrong and you can never catch a break, and you hate the people around you for making you feel this way, or being eternally happy. You hate how seemingly easy life is for them. It never is, of course. Life is terrible and disgusting towards everyone. And of course, again, it's the ones who suffer the most who care the most. Those who are in quiet agony are the most empathetic. The most ready to help. The ones who care the most. But when you feel alone, you secretly hate them.

But most of all, you hate yourself. You hate what you've become and you hate that little voice inside your head and you hate everything about yourself from the shape of your toenails to the thoughts in your brain.

Everything.

That's what depression is- everything lost between never and mind. The gray area between hell and heaven. The never ending, solitary confinement of a mind in a world full of freedom.

It's an addiction of forms where the satisfaction of feeling something, anything at all, instead of being numb is the high, the pain and heartache and anxiety is the fall and the pressing litany of guilt is the withdrawal. As soon as you feel good about yourself, depression comes back to haunt you, and you drown yourself with a constant loop of I'mnotgoodenough and I'mnotallowedtobehappy.

And once you fall under the ruthless hand of mental illness, you become just another plastic piece on the cracked checkerboard of life.