I think that I can finally put a description on what I've been feeling for the past six months.
Depression is weight. Its a heaviness that settles in the middle of your heart and spreads through your entire being. Even when your whole focus is on something singularly happy, there's still this strange heaviness that pulls you down. Sometimes its easier to ignore it, or pretend its not there. But at your most quiet, your most still, it suddenly overpowers you to the point of suffocation. You'll lean back against your headboard about to plunge into the pages of a book when the weight suddenly pins you down and reminds you whose really in charge. Sometimes an entire month can go by without you really ever acknowledging its there until a trigger explodes the terrible weight across your chest and drags you deep into itself again.
You try to overcome it. You try to do right by yourself and get well again, but the great heaviness just seems too great to lift on your own. You tentatively reach out to friends to see if their constant love can lift it from your heart, only to find that its stronger. Its stronger that even the purest love. And then the fear starts to pair with the weight, and its a perfect pair indeed. Perfectly matched to each other. One compliments the other so exquisitely that you begin to understand that you may never truly recover from this. Perhaps one day the weight will lighten to a whisper, but it will always remain in your heart, prepared to pounce at the slightest trigger; the slightest hint of weakness.
I am a broken person indeed. And the worst thing is that I broke myself. I led myself down the path to the scaffold. No one else put me here save me. I've lost my dearest, oldest friend, and I cant even bring myself to have her back...and its mostly a terror at this weight. The barest hint of a trigger and I suffocate. Isn't the loss of what could be, the loss of a love worth it if it means getting to keep the love that has been in your life so long you cant function without it?
I seclude myself with what used to bring me joy, trying to stoke the fires on my passion to life. But I find the barest hint of embers compared to what used to be. And it terrifies me. If not even my art can bring me joy, then how can I ever hope to lighten this weight in the center of me? If music is utterly excruciating, then what balm do I have for my soul?
I'm listless. I go about in a daze, dutifully playing the game of life with no enjoyment left in me. Its a constant chore of reminding myself that it gets better, that there is no way that this will go on. Reminding me that my pain is nothing compared to what would happen should the weight win. That this shell of an existence is worth even lost breath to pain if it spares others the heartache of this weight on their hearts.
My father died from a cocaine overdose, and for the first time in five years, I envy him. I envy him the habit that could at least explain the despicable act of taking himself away from us. Sure, we can blame ourselves to a point, but in the end, it was his addiction, and his alone.
But the victory of this weight is to doom them to a life of a piece of the same weight, and I really just don't have it in me to do that to those that mean everything to me, even if they are no longer in my life.
So that means trying to truly find a way to live with the whole of it on my own.
Change is on the wind.
It has to be.