Sometimes depression speaks to me through resounding voices that ask me what the hell am I doing all this for. Then, I find myself consumed with feeling absurd, that perhaps stringing words together is nothing more than a waste of time. The writer inside yearns for continuous approval, and removing denial from the equation exposes my weakness, that I am too delicate and too easily broken.
Perhaps all writers have one thing in common: We’re all insecure and we all need readers to help validate our self-worth. Inside, I am always breaking, searching for answers to my awkwardness. When joy dries up, despondency takes its place until I am alerted again that I’m failing.
Failure at living
Afraid to succeed
Living shameful of words
I wander around the rooms in my head to validate the voices that tell me this is all a waste of time. But, I get up and open to a blank page. My fingers begin to move again and I keep writing until the voices begin to fade.
The Bottom Line
There is no one perfect path that exists except for our own, and maybe I’m weak and a little insecure. Perhaps I need so much because I’m often haunted by what I lack. But at least I can confess to all of this. At least I can look myself in the mirror and own my imperfections while attempting to revise them. For too long I hid my depression from the world, afraid of the judgment, afraid of the stigma. Depression attempts to control my life and whisper all the ways I will fall apart again. My world fragmenting. The only course of action is to stop myself from stopping myself. It’s easier to quit and to allow the voices to win because they’ve succeeded at pulling me down before, sucked into a pit of despair at the bottom of an invisible well. Yet, every day I get up and try, albeit imperfectly, stumbling along I am still choosing the more difficult path.
In the end
I choose to live
I open a new page
I write again