Depression.

The fullness of a stomach over-indulged with baked goods and salty things,
or the emptiness of a lack of appetite for days.
The fluctuation of the numbers on a scale.
The tiredness that resides just below and behind my half-alert eyes.
Staying up til 4am for no reason.
Laying in bed and not sleeping when I should, could, must,
and passing out in the prime hours of the day, ridding myself of any chance to have productivity that day.
The accidental addiction to the attention of another.
Cigarettes on the front porch, and the shame that comes with each clove-filled drag.
That ache in my spine, my neck, and the joints in my hands.
Burning banana bread, toast, everything I lay my hands on.
Throwing away produce ruined by my stupid leaky fridge.
The jealousy of perfect Atlanta-lives.
Sitting on that leather couch, watching hour after hour of TLC and HGTV; enjoying the sights of others living their lives and improving their situations.
Blaming the tears on PMS.
Blaming everything on PMS.
The fear of the impending--I am a week out from this 5k, and I haven't ran in 5 days.
The fear of failure, and knowing that it will be all my fault if that happens.
The pressure of goals.
The headaches that reside just behind the left side of my forehead.
Sleeping in.
Snooze.
Not even wanting to take a shower.
The incredible high I get from a few hours of productivity, or a deep-heart hug from a good friend, or the relief from finishing class and assignments... it tricks me into thinking I'm okay, and that's even more exhausting afterwards.
The guilt that "Everyone has these days," and
"It'll get better,"
"You just gotta pick yourself back up,"
"Quitting is forever,"
"Just start eating better and go for a walk,"
"You're doing this to yourself,"
The guilt of everyone else having an answer of how to "fix" your depression, and you know that entire recipe by heart... and it only makes you feel worse.
Spiraling thoughts. Oh the spiraling thoughts. ("Fear of commitment," "Fear of intimacy," "Addictions," "Eating disorders," "Restlessness," "Life Calling," "The pressure of being a 'Leader,' a 'Mentor,' and a 'Role Model,' when you feel like those people have to be perfect--even though I know that's not true," "New Cities," and everything in between.)
"Pray about it."
And guilt.
Remembering that the anti-depressants are what got you here in the first place--60 pounds in 4 months on the frail hearted young body of an Ellie (then Eliesa) who just wanted to finish high school and be happy.
Wanting so badly to just take back all the bad choices--throw the banana bread in the trash (it's burned anyway, stop eating it), go for a 2.5 mile run, read 2 chapters for Poly Sci, and Do Life. Why is that such a hard concept?
The comfort of habits.
The sad pandora stations.
The lack of "sadness," the lack of "happiness." The residual "nothingness" of the soul.




This is what my depression looks like. Feels like. It tastes like a penny in your mouth, dirty metal. It is comforting like a hug from a distant relative that you just met and do not like. It is haunting. It creates beautiful prose and poetry; as I sat on the porch the other night, cigarette in hand, surrounded by candles and a bag full of grapes, the night sky staring down at me, I wrote deeply and fully--and oh, I felt like a writer. But I hate that the moments in which I feel most like a writer, I am in darkness. Why must the talented be so brooding? It's unattractive. I kept asking myself, as I sat there pondering the death of Troy Davis, if there was a Depressed Poets club on campus, and if they would let me in.

It just makes me sleepy. All I want to do is sleep--and eat baked goods--when I am this low. It hurts, because some of my very close family members are this way. From what I understand, it began for them around the same age it began for me... and it followed them throughout their entire life, affecting their ability to work, keep a job, and feel satisfied in their parenting. I watched from unknowing eyes, the innocence of a child, and sometimes I hated them for it. I see them now, from sympathetic, knowing eyes, with an empathetic soul.

Darling, I taste raindrop sized portions of your pain. I cannot imagine how difficult your life path has been, and how you cope day-to-day. I wish the best for you. And I don't want to be anything like that, and it terrifies me when I know that we are going through Same Things. I want to grow up and be successful, happy, live a fulfilled life, debt-free, in a city, in simplicity, eating cleanly and worshipping god, loving others. I have this vision that sometimes just feels like the good-idea we all have to carry with us to feel like there's substance to life. What happens when none of the adult-figures you looked up to growing up showed you a picture of that truth? What happens when you don't believe that there is success--happiness--on the other side of the "hard work" of your youth? What if you believe that things only get harder from here on out? How... how do you change that mind?

What do you do when none of these words come out when you talk to your counselor? The person you pay to help you fix your problems? I'm not sure of the answers to any of these questions. All I know is, I was once depressed in secret, in years past, and I think I can't live that way again. I think testing the fear-filled waters of vulnerability might be the one thing that gets my adrenaline pumping enough to lace up my Oasics, sometimes. It's worth a shot.



I don't feel any better, after all of this. The grossest thing about Depression is how it sneaks up on you. How after 2 weeks of Depression, you only then realize the way it's been picking at your skin and aching in your joints. I hope I can find healing. Soon.