I was struggling to come up with a title for this post and my brain said, "The Madness Vase," but then I thought, that is already a thing, so I Googled it, and sure enough, it's an Andrea Gibson Poem.

April 6, 2015

I’m in the hole again. Depression feels like being swallowed by a gaping hole that is slowly eating you from the inside. This hole could be called, simply, the Black Hole, but I feel like it’s important to name it what it is. For the sake of those who never had a name for what they felt. For the ones who gave in before they learned that it wasn’t their fault. That their grandmothers and their mothers suffered from the same darkness. Illness. Sickness. That it was a sickness. Not some failing on their part to do the right thing, or to be the right way. Some failure to be happy. Some failure to understand something vital that lets people get through this life without feeling like it is trying to kill them every day. Like leaving two husbands because you think that you would not be so sad all the time, if only your husband was nicer to you. Like leaving jobs because you think if only you liked your work you wouldn’t wake up wishing you didn’t have to get out of bed ever again. Like walking to your fridge to get something and collapsing on the floor for a half an hour sobbing, leaning against the wall and staring at last night’s dishes while tears stream down your face and your cries sift out of the open windows, because it is spring. Depression feels like not caring that it is spring. Or that the sun is shining, or the moon is full. Like thinking that everyone who loves you would be better off without the burden of you. Like you would be better off if you didn’t have to wear the heavy cloak of this life anymore. Like nothing is ever going to be easy and you are tired of the struggle. Tired of struggling all the time. It feels like smoking is a good option, but it’s not fast enough.

Depression sounds like a silent voice, incessantly screaming in your ear that you are worthless. Maybe you can find a way to quietly end it. Just go away from here. Your kids will be fine, they have other family who will take good care of them, better care than you can. Whispering, whispering, Maybe you could just quietly end it…Find a way. Depression is an evil mistress. A temptress, constantly luring you to the other side. A tricksy devil, saying this way leads to no more pain, over here. Come over. Trying to make you forget that if you exit this plane early you’ll just have to take another flight. 

This IS a cry for help. Despite the voice insisting loudly, “This is NOT a cry for help.”

Art credit: Mind Devour by Sebmaestro

Depression sounds like a voice that won’t stop repeating lists of all the things wrong you have ever done. All the bad choices you have made that have led you to this moment. Depression never forgives transgressions, unless they were made by someone else. Depression thinks that you are pretty much the worst person ever. Depression doesn’t care that you are a wonderful mom or that you made pancakes just yesterday. Depression doesn’t care that you are a hard worker. Depression just wants to point out that there’s no milk again and you failed to find a good enough job and the food stamps don’t come for another week. Depression and poverty are good mates. Depression always saunters in when you are feeling worst about your finances. Depression says, you’re a fuck-up. You’ll never amount to anything. Depression is a thief. Even when you have been doing really well, really working on all the things you are supposed to be doing, depression says haha, fuck you. You’re an idiot, you think that any of this is going to make a difference? You’re going to be poor and alone forever. You might as well quit.

Depression has a loud voice. He is hard to drown out. I don’t know why depression is a He, but he feels male to me. Sometimes the only thing that will make him shut up is going to sleep. So I do. I’m thankful that I never got into substance abuse, because I am sure that would be another way to get depression to be a little quieter for a while. I’m glad that I never found a bottle of pills that screamed, "Try me! I’m good at making things shut up."

I’d rather hear depression’s abusive, awful speech about how much I suck, than take something that makes him shut up.

Well no, I’d rather there was something that would make him shut up that wouldn’t have a worse effect than actually just letting him go on his rants.

I’d rather he just go away and let me live. I’d rather care about spring. And school. I’d rather not think that my kids would be better off without me around. I’d rather have a heavy dose of self-love, a voice that says, hey man, you’re doing a bang-up job. Keep it up! Or a voice that said, I know that things are hard right now, but they are going to be better, I promise.

This is not a cry for help. Except that it is. God, please let me get better. Let depression get in a shiny blue convertible and drive away from here, leaving me in peace. This is my cry for help. This is me on my knees, begging please, help me get out of my own way. Help me, set me free. Please, I beg you.