Hello, Old Pal

Depression is so smart. It really is. It’s a fucking genius. It always knows what to do. It morphs and melts and slips into the tiny cracks of my brain. It waits. It plans.

I remember when depression used to talk to me. I remember it telling me I was useless and stupid. It told me I hurt everything I touched and that the world was  better off without me in it. I would give anything for depression to talk to me now.

They taught me how to talk back. I learned how to reason with depression. I learned all its arguments and beat it at its own game. I learned to say when you say that no one loves me, it’s just not true. People do love me. And they wouldn’t be better without me. They’d be devastated. I figured out how to silence depression. But it was a mistake.

Now it doesn’t talk to me. It moves in silence. There is no reasoning with it. It exists as a choking fog around my brain. It crawls through my veins. It closes off every feeling of connection to the world. That was my favorite part of living. How do you wrestle with a state of being?

I don’t know yet what the end game is. All I know is that it wants me alone. All I know is that it makes me feel alone. For whatever reason, iIt wants the two of us in a room together, just like the good ‘ol days. I just wish it would talk to me again.

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