It is a harsh, desolate place that I inhabit; I do not simply speak of the pounding gale outside, threatening to wrench the door of the hinges, but also the pounding within my mind. It wants to be free, to take over me, to make me its slave. It tears at the walls of my consciousness, screaming laughing, too at my weakness. One day, it will be free. It is this entity within me given power by the coldness, the greyness, the blueness that makes me take the short walk to the bathroom, pluck a razor from the shelf and bring it to my skin. Laughing at my weakness. The blood from the broken skin is more than a wound, it is a statement: a cry to the blueness that howls outside, prowling like a burglar trying to find the best entrance, that it will not win, that it will not be allowed to consume me. The red is a dab of paint on an empty canvas, waiting for the artist to fill in the shapes, fill in the void.
I fall asleep and the walls collapse around me.
And, not looking me in the eye, calmly, they tell me it is "only depression."
This excerpt is a good example of what living with depression can be like, and whether or not it's worth living. whether or not all the trouble and struggles you go through in a day, is worth staying and fighting through. You feel so weak, and empty, that you think you will never make it out of the place you're stuck in, unless you end it all. But you're scared, you tell your self that there are people who care about you, and if you kill yourself they will suffer too, and you don't want that. You tell your self that it might get better some day. So as you put that razor blade to your skin, and you start to cut, you feel better for a moment, as your skin stings, and goes numb, you're feeling real pain. As the blood drips from your cuts, you're seeing real pain. It doesn't last, it will get bad again, but for a few seconds, you feel at peace, but all the while afraid to press the razor down a bit harder..
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