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Even The Darkest Nights End

TRIGGER WARNING: DEPRESSION, ANXIETY, SUICIDE

She had bags under her eyes, salt stitched to her face, and stress lines nested around every flattering feature. Her drooping shoulders and even worsening posture held up a t-shirt that certainly hadn't been washed in a few days and her hips, which were now more prominent than ever before, woefully held onto the hem of her grease stained sweatpants. She sported mis- matched socks and a random pair of slippers that were soon to be shoved off the moment her butt hit the couch. The redhead slugged through the house with heavy, dragging feet and into the living room, avoiding every mirror at all costs. While passing the fridge, she grabbed three more beers and plopped herself down on the couch, kicking off her slippers. She sat, watching whatever shitty reality television show was on at three in the morning.

Nicole hadn't left this very position in well, now thinking about it, when was the last time she'd gotten up to brush her hair or her teeth? Or maybe to get groceries instead of making boxed macaroni and cheese for the fourth time this week? Nicole has definitely thought about getting up and putting herself together. Possibly to toss on a clean pair of sweatpants or wash her face, but that would take far too much work and she would have to look herself in the mirror and see what she had become without Waverly. It's been at least a few months without her, she stopped counting the days, and every time Nicole thought about it, she popped the top off of another beer and took a few hard gulps before settling into the tingling feeling that was radiating through her body from her stomach.

Depression is unique in every person that she touches. Sometimes, she's gentle and faint, barely there, only distantly reminding you that she's still there. But sometimes she's ruthless and unforgiving, relentless. She has this magical, almost entrancing way of blurring every day together so they were one large blob, erasing memories, happy or sad it doesn't matter, so that you continue to swirl the drain until you finally fall through, and wave the metaphorical white flag, essentially giving up. Depression often times invites Anxiety along for the ride. Perhaps it's more fun this way or maybe it's just convenient. Like when you invite your friend to go to the store with you just because you're bored, and they live on the way. Anxiety takes you up the track of the rollercoaster that is a panic attack and lets you sit on top, looking down at the winding, twisting path that lies below you letting you feel your nerves reach up to your throat and Depression, for the fun of it, let's you slowly and painfully descend until she finally releases you with the simplest of "clinks" and you hurdle down into whatever trauma filled memory lane they decide to take you down tonight.

But on rollercoasters, if it's built the right way for the most extreme amount of thrill, you succumb to the adrenaline and too much of it makes you feel numb. You close your eyes, grip the safety bar and sort of throw your head back, giving up and giving in to the thrill, and accepting that it'll end in thirty seconds and you'll be getting in line for the next ride, just a hundred feet away. Except in your head, there's no hands in the air, there's no laughing because you don't have enough oxygen left to scream, no. It lasts for hours and sometimes days and you can't just get off the ride and move on. There's no safety bar to dig your nails into and if you throw your head and give up, you're considered a danger to yourself. And now you sit on your couch eating macaroni, sipping on your fifth beer of the night and sat in the same clothes from last Wednesday, going over the events from the past year, thinking of what could've gone differently and would you be sitting here right now if you had just driven to Austin with your girlfriend and just gotten some goddamn tacos. You drown yourself in the thoughts of, "Why did I do that?" or "I should've done something different." Thoughts swirl around your mind with no way to make them stop or even slow down.

Since taking her leave of absence from the Police Department, it became easier to coax Nicole onto this wild interaction. She didn't put up much of a fight. Nicole often had conversations with herself, debating whether she had grown weaker or maybe she was just ready to give herself over to the idea that she couldn't do this anymore. But working at the station became too much, too fast. She would find herself staring into space, her mind completely and utterly blank. She would check back into life, not realizing that hours had passed by only to get up from her desk, walk out the door turning off the lights and locking up for the night. She'd go home, drink a couple beers, and be carried away into sleep, not even bothering to change out of her uniform. Why? Because who cares. The station became a place of pain rather than passion or joy, so she left the place she had worked so hard to get to all because of Depression and Anxiety. Assholes.