mom,
my depression is a shape shifter;
one day it is as small as a firefly in the palm of a bear, the next, it’s the bear.
those days i play dead until the bear leaves me alone.
i call the bad days the dark days.
mom says try lighting candles.
when i see a candle, i see the flesh of a church. the flicker of life sparks a memory younger than noon; i am standing beside her open casket, it is the moment i realize every person i ever come to know will someday die.
besides, mom, i’m not afraid of the dark, perhaps that is part of the problem.
mom says
i thought the problem was that you can’t get out of bed?
i can’t. anxiety holds me hostage inside of my house, inside of my head.
mom says
where did anxiety come from?
anxiety is the cousin visiting from out of town depression felt obligated to bring to the party. mom, i am the party.
only, i am a party i don’t want to be at.
mom says
why don’t you try going to actual parties? see your friends.
sure, i make plans. i make plans but i don’t want to go. i make plans because i know i should want to go, i know at some point i would have wanted to go, it’s just not that much fun having fun when you don’t want to have fun.
mom, each night, insomnia sweeps me up into its arms, dips me in the kitchen by the small glow of stove light. insomnia has this romantic way of making the moon feel like perfect company.
mom says
try counting sheep.