(Kind of devolves from this prompt bc this is a past work I wrote.)

My friend asked what depression was like, once.

I didn’t tell him it was like drowning when all you were trying to do was convince everyone that you’re not even close to water.

I didn’t tell him it was crushing, when all you were trying to do was convince everyone you weren’t stuck under all the responsibilities and incidents.

The weight, to us, is tangible. It is something we feel.

We are desperate to feel nothing because we feel everything all the time.

We stay up late because we can’t sleep, we won’t sleep, the silence is too temporary to waste it.

We don’t brush our teeth, and we hear people say how disgusting it is that we can’t take care of ourselves without hearing comforts or offering a helping hand.

It is always, “why not do this?” Instead of “what do you need?”

Always assuming instead of asking, because mental illness is something mental only.

“It’s in your head. It’s not that serious.”

I can’t breathe if I don’t have an oxygen tank. You pull mine away and insult me when I struggle.

You say you don’t understand. You say it’s physically possible to get out of bed each day. It’s so easy. One foot in front of the other.

We can feel the weight of our own bodies.

You say we are dramatic. You insult us before asking why we feel this way. Why we don’t have enough strength to eat or get out of bed each day.

You care more about me doing everything to survive rather than the people who did nothing to help.