Sprawled on my bed, cheek pressed firmly against the bare mattress pad, I'm trying to come up with things to write about. All I know is that my bare legs are cold and that my world has been blotted out by a red-gold curtain of hair. I feel heavy, every fiber of my body weighing me down and I feel that any minute I'm going to sink through this mattress, sink through the floor, through my whole house and into the ground, into damp, sucking darkness.
I've written about depression before and will again, I'm sure, but the days that are my darkest are just that. Days. I'm over the real depression, the one that consumes, and breaks, and kills and the only signs I see of it now are rare. Which, I suppose, is why it's so weird to feel it right now. It's situational depression, not as intense as the other kind; it will go away. I remember this, though. It clings to you like a shroud, invades your idle moments; it makes conversation difficult and then you realize that it's 5 pm and you've yet to smile.
If I believed in god I would be very angry right now.
But I'll stop writing about this, I promise.
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