Dear Depression, I Want You to Know Why You're Wrong
I never really know where to start when I talk about you. I can never really pinpoint the very first time you came into my life. You never really came into my life with the abruptness of a train wreck as people imagine. You slid into my shadows as each day progressed. You were so subtle at first, so harmless, but not for long. In time you became the opposite. You planted thoughts into my head filled with self-hatred, anxieties, worthlessness, hopelessness, and worse. So I’m writing you a letter to accept that you’re a part of my life officially. Sure, I’ve talked to a few trusted friends about you, but I’ve never directly addressed you. So congratulations, you’re a part of me.
You pride yourself on being the silent killer, etching your harsh words into the backs of minds until you poke through enough nerves to scream so loudly into our heads that we hear nothing else. People are so scared to talk about you. Scared you’re some sort of contagious illness, as if by being around the ones who have you around their necks, they’ll eventually feel your weight around their ankles. But just because you’re a part of our lives, doesn’t mean we aren’t happy people. While you, depression, have latched yourself to my name, I still identify myself as an individual who is happy with my life. Because on days when I am OK, I can safely say I am aware that I am surrounded by those who love and support me, and on the awful days, the days I feel hopeless and lost, I always have at least one friend to guide me out of your endless darkness, and for that, I will always be thankful.
You always whisper horrible things into my ear, and I want you to know you are wrong, you are so very wrong, and here’s why:
I am enough.
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Thinkstock photo by Marjan_Apostolovic