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The story of my fight with depression. |
I am trying very hard I am trying desperately I am clinging to this sanity with every fiber of my being and it's the hardest thing I've done After my great big mess- the blood on my bed sheets and the bright flashing lights- I thought that I would either perish or be fixed I didn't perish and so I thought that all of the white walls and the plastic wristbands and the government employed physicians would patch me up and all would be well But the pieces of clothe that they used to close up my holes were old and had stories of their own and if I reach my fingers just the right way I can poke a tiny bit of my stuffing so that it peeks out from between the thread that is holding me together And those doctors may have opened up the windows inside of me so that sunlight may stream in But the night has to come sometime And I've never been one to cherish the light anyway I was born on the first rainy day of a sweltering Texas summer And it didn't just rain it poured As if God was somewhere up in heaven crying out His great big eyes I tore my mama from the inside out and took pieces of her with me but she still held me gently in her arms as she bled inside herself and she still loved me fiercely even though my life almost took hers away She's still changed inside because of the choice that she made and sometimes I think she made the wrong one, that maybe she should have laid me down in a tiny coffin rather than a bassinet I was supposed to die then, at the very start of everything and that is the reason this darkness follows me around like a shadow that won't leave my side I was never a happy child, not really I thought that perhaps my purpose was simply to be a vessel for a great deal of sadness so that others may not have to feel it I would fill my pockets with lady bugs and lay in the grass, pretending that the lady bugs were small stones and the grass was a pond and my tiny body was sinking, sinking, sinking I did try to be happy though I played with my dolls and watched my shows and smiled like it meant something I tried and tried, until I realized every family has a tragedy and I would be the one for mine I was the sick one, the distant one the child with more reservations than the continental U.S. Defined by the sad songs on my cellphone and all the things I never had I would be the hard birth and the easy death I don't know where the thought started but I got it in my head that I would be the one to unite my family, through my final departure I would create an excuse for all of the animosity between them Resting in a bed of dirt and dressed in black gossamer, I would reach out through death and give my family one solitary thing to love or hate or regret or question and their pain would bind them closer than their shared blood I tried to fight the idea; fight my fate; fight the darkness Even then I tried But it found new ways to sneak in through old cracks in my resolve I was a burden, a great terrible burden I was the ugly one, the one child of three who couldn't do anything well The girl who hid in books and cried at even the slightest provocation I was the sick daughter, the overly-sensitive sister The girl in class who no one wanted to talk to I was a presence to be endured rather than appreciated I was an extra weight that no one wanted to carry, I was a massive waste of space I would be better off dead And still I tried to fight I made myself funny, and kind and lovable I made myself into someone who just might be missed I tried and tried and tried But the darkness tried back It tried until I didn't have a reason, I didn't have another part to play, I just had pain and I wanted so badly for it to end And the only perfect end, the blank screen after the credits the true grand finale - is death I craved it like a freezing man craves warmth And so I tried to bring it the best way I knew how; with pills and a shard of broken glass but I kept on breathing, and my heart kept beating so I let those PhD's sew me closed They did a poor job, because I can still see bits of the white fluff that is meant to fill me but, everyone has stitching, and sometimes threads fray and come undone But mosaics are works of art, made from broken pieces because you can make anything beautiful you just have to try And I swear to God I will keep on trying. |