Wounded
There are a few things I have experienced that I would not want anyone else to bear, yet I know others have suffered the same agonies and turmoils in their own ways. The most daunting and cruel one I have had the pleasure of shouldering is depression. I do not speak of the common byproduct of consequences and losses of which we all must overcome during our existence, whether it be the death of a loved one or the repercussion of a decision that alters life as you have come to manage. No, I speak of the wild and rare version that surfaces from the void itself, sundering your routine, shattering your grasp on all manners of things, dragging you down to a crawl with its heinous weight.
Describing this “feeling”, or rather experience, is tough. Words are not enough, and that seems to be the golden rule really with all things. The best I can muster is this: Depression, on this scale, in this manner, is like being wounded. It is invisible yet everything can poke at it, agitate it, including yourself. Even the wind hurts. It takes time to heal and the best means seem to be hiding away from everyone and everything. It is you as a whole, one big exposed nerve that aches and shutters with a mere thought or glance. It makes you sick and angry, helpless and disgusted. This scariest part yet is, though being similar to a wound, there is no certainty it will heal, keeping you in a stranglehold of fear and panic, looming dread grasping your sleep and awakened state. Then, if it does heal, you are left wondering...wondering when the wound will reopen. It is a whole that cannot be filled and will never fully close.
There are a few things I have experienced that I would not want anyone else to bear, yet I know others have suffered the same agonies and turmoils in their own ways. The most daunting and cruel one I have had the pleasure of shouldering is depression. I do not speak of the common byproduct of consequences and losses of which we all must overcome during our existence, whether it be the death of a loved one or the repercussion of a decision that alters life as you have come to manage. No, I speak of the wild and rare version that surfaces from the void itself, sundering your routine, shattering your grasp on all manners of things, dragging you down to a crawl with its heinous weight.
Describing this “feeling”, or rather experience, is tough. Words are not enough, and that seems to be the golden rule really with all things. The best I can muster is this: Depression, on this scale, in this manner, is like being wounded. It is invisible yet everything can poke at it, agitate it, including yourself. Even the wind hurts. It takes time to heal and the best means seem to be hiding away from everyone and everything. It is you as a whole, one big exposed nerve that aches and shutters with a mere thought or glance. It makes you sick and angry, helpless and disgusted. This scariest part yet is, though being similar to a wound, there is no certainty it will heal, keeping you in a stranglehold of fear and panic, looming dread grasping your sleep and awakened state. Then, if it does heal, you are left wondering...wondering when the wound will reopen. It is a whole that cannot be filled and will never fully close.