Recently I find myself battling with the idea that I’m
facing a legitimate disease and have had to spend a considerate amount of time
convincing myself and the world otherwise. Trying to make them see that I’m
not just lazily sitting pretty on my bed doing nothing.
Cause Depression isn’t pretty, it isn’t all red healed lines
on white pale skin.
It isn’t an aesthetic.
It isn’t Tumblr worthy.
A lot of the times it’s just a residue of oily skin. It’s a break out of painful cysts on your face. It’s a deep deep hunger, where you keep eating even though the eating hurts, but the sensation of taste on your tongue is the only thing distracting you from the sensation of pain everywhere else.
It’s 50 missed calls on your phone, 100 unread emails, 10
It’s a gap year, and then two, and then three , until you
give up on calling it a break and it just becomes life.
It’s body odours and ashy skin.
It’s flooded apartments that can’t be bothered to be mopped
It’s hoodies, and jackets, and sneakers, a neutral uniform
attempting to cover up what’s really going on inside.
It’s yelled out conversations with your mother
There aren’t 3 seasons.
You don’t join the 27 club.
You disjoin your own family.
It’s everything but your next mood.
It’s everything but a metaphor.
It’s a real actual disease.
And I wish people would actually see that
P.S I post a lot of my writing on Instagram, for more follow here.