I am not depressed.
I can still smile at pretty thing.
And laugh when jokes are funny.
I can still talk to people.
And enjoy nice days.
But when I go inside.
When I am alone,
There is something broken.
And I fall into a sadness so sweet
That it engulfs me.
I look in the mirror.
And I don’t like what I see.
And the tears always fall
When I’m falling asleep.
And I miss something
That doesn’t exist.
I am not depressed.
I’ve just been sad for a while.
But I can still find the light.
I can still smile.
Sometimes this seems like an incredibly painfully accurate description of me, despite the fact that I am depressed.
I may not always look like it, but I am. But really, what does depressed look like? Is it all black clothes? Messy unwashed hair? Wrinkled clothes? No makeup? There is no “look” of depression.
It’s hard to peg someone. In high school, I never would’ve guessed that one of my best friends was on anti-depressants – but she was, for a year. I don’t know if she ever went back on them, but she’s doing just fine now. I mean, I thought she was going fine when she was on them.
Sure, there are times you can look at me and know something’s wrong. But who isn’t like that? Maybe I’m lost in thought. Maybe I’m planning something. Maybe I’ve got a headache. Maybe I feel sick. There’s no telling what’s going on.
Honestly, every day is a battle. A battle to stay on top of my school work. A battle to get dressed. A battle to function like a “normal” person. A battle to pretend I’m on. A battle to hide it from everyone. A battle that I don’t really want to fight most times.
I know that probably sounds terrible. I’m a Stigma Fighter with Sarah, but that doesn’t mean that I’m always gonna be able to pull myself up by my bootstraps and push forward. Sometimes it feels like I’m sitting at the bottom of a hole and reaching up to the hands that are reaching down to me, and there’s too much space between us even if I stand up and jump.