I don’t understand how people write when they’re depressed. I can never write anything at all.
My mind goes blank. I become slow. My senses are muted.
A friend said to me the other day that she could relate to ‘living in a cloud of black’. Except, that’s not what it is like.
It’s like I’m here but I’m not. The world is dull and so am I. The sun is shining brightly, but the sunlight hurts my eyes. It’s warmth on my skin makes me want to shrink away to a place where nothing, where no one, can reach me.
It’s not dark, but it’s heavy. There is pressure. It rests above me and around me, and it pushes me down.
It’s not dark, but there is a man here, with his hands around my throat. Holding me tightly, so I can just barely breath, but not too much. I am suffocating slowly. I am losing the will to fight. I am weakened.
People without a mental illness think they have some sort of idea what it is like, but they don’t. There is something disheartening about those who think they understand, those who think they have any kind of idea that they know, when really, they know nothing at all.
It is not helpful to me when an ignorant person claims some sort of understanding. You can never feel my experience. I can never feel yours.
This is a waiting game. I watch the clock, and the clock watches me. But there is always a way out. There is always hope (but that is not what depression is telling me). There will always be change. What goes up must come down. And we all fall down.
This is not abnormal. This is Bipolar. This, is me.