My Bad Days With 'High-Functioning' Depression
My parents say I’m too smart to be this sad.
They tell me “no, no.”
Because most days I can control my impulses and convince myself that my brain is being illogical.
And maybe they’re right, maybe I’m overreacting.
Maybe every day isn’t as bad as the bad days make it seem.
But on the bad days, the good days aren’t enough to make me want to stay.
And on those days, when I’m alone, when I have no one who cares, I turn to my mom, because she’s the only one who does.
And I tell her she doesn’t.
She doesn’t know what to say.
And when she tells me she loves me, I can’t say it back.
Because when I get like this I can’t feel anything but sadness.
So she tells me I’m smart, tells me I’ll get through this.
And I want to be like: “You’re goddamn right I will.”
Because I will work for it.
But just because I’m hardworking, doesn’t mean I’m happy.
Just because I walk around with a smile, doesn’t mean I’m not struggling.
And maybe it’s true, that no one cares.
Unless you’re on your deathbed.
Unless you’re physically screaming.
But maybe it’s true that even then, people will compare what you went through to themselves and fault you for not getting through it as well as they did.
And I get it, I do.
How people forget to ask me how I am because they have their own lives to live.
And sometimes lending a shoulder takes up too much energy when you’re this sad.
I don’t know, I guess a lot of the things I thought I believed in were always a contradiction in the end.
And I wish I could write a poem to make it all go away.
But sometimes poems fail.
Sometimes words fail.
On the bad days, most of the time they do.
The truth is, you’re tired.
The truth is, I’m tired too.
The truth is, neither one of us knows what to do.
Follow this journey here.
If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386 or reach the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.
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Unsplash photo via David Preston