Dear depression

You are an emptiness on the leftish side of my chest where my heart should be. You are a lump in my throat as I remain permanently on the edge of tears.

You are an apathy I can’t fathom.

You are my boyfriend’s worry when I don’t talk to him for six hours without warning.

You are a room that hasn’t been cleaned since December. You are the trash piling up in the corner, the thin layer of dust on everything, the unwashed laundry. You are the clean sheets lying on the floor that I don’t have the energy to put back on the bed.

You are my 2.7 GPA. You are half-completed, but not turned in, assignments. 

You are brief smoking habit that I picked up after getting a C in Osteology one summer.

You are my self-loathing.

You are why I didn’t leave my bed for close to 24 hours except to feed myself. You are my bank account dwindling because I don’t care enough or have enough energy to cook for myself.

I don’t know why I’m not in therapy for you. Maybe I’ve been burned by one too many therapists putting me on drugs without care. Maybe not getting help is a form of self-harm. I deserve you, after all.

I am not suicidal. At least, not right now. I don’t want to die, I just want you gone.



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