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This article first appeared on The Good Men Project and has been republished with permission.
CN: Depression
I still shudder. Depression speaks with words of cold steel, the brittle shards fall around me like a thousand razors.
For the most part, my depression has lifted. Today is much, much different than things were last year. I still have days. Of darkness. Those days feel unfeelingly unreal and numb.
What is below. Is raw. And unedited. No, it is not my finest writing, but it is real.
I believe that in giving ourselves a voice, we give ourselves hope.
Depression speaks with words of cold steel, the brittle shards fall around me like a thousand razors.
Dis-Appointment.
My Dis-Appointment. An appointment with a hole.
My Dis-Satisfaction. A hole in my soul?
Shrinking into myself. Falling.
Always reaching. Calling.
Unfindingly, I. Feel.
Vaguely familiar with this place. Unreal.
So I buy trinkets. Empty.
I eat and I eat. Still empty.
An appointment with a hole.
A hole in my soul.
Unfindingly, I. Feel. Vaguely familiar with this place. Unreal.
Shrinking into myself. Who?
Who am I anymore? I spew.
Unthinkingly, I. Feel.
Frightened within this place. I reel.
I run, I numb. I numb.
It returns. Depression.
This time the dragon appears in a burning cloud of Napalm hate. Too early.
I awake and I face the dragon. Weapons hurl, I.
In vain. In vain. In vain. All.
All. In vain. In vain. All.
An appointment with a hole.
A hole in my soul.
I run, I numb. I numb. It returns. Depression.
Shrinking into myself. Who?
Who am I anymore? I spew.
Skin crawls. Mind races.
Jets on full. Soul paces.
Feel like life somehow took a left turn. And I went right.
Confused and confused. Fused and confused. Right?
Feet ever walking, always tripping. Beneath me.
Falling down, I. Cannot. Be. Who. I. See.
Smile is full but empty. I am empty. A facade.
Well put together. Look good. Dust and decay.
The gloom fills the room between my ears.
My eyes are dry, unable to rid my mind of tears.
Gaping hole in my head. Gloom.
Empty hole in my soul. Doorless room.
An appointment with a hole.
A hole in my soul.
The unscratchable. Itch. The itch is two feet under my skin. The bitch.The bitch that won’t stitch. I kick.
Shrinking into myself. I fall.
Why do I I fight with myself? I call.
Skin crawls. Mind races.
Empty, I walk through my paces.
The unscratchable. Itch.
The itch is two feet under my skin. The bitch.
The bitch that won’t stitch. I kick.
The air with an empty boot. Thick.
And full of empty longings. Racing.
Head bangs. Empty mirror. Facing.
An appointment with a hole.
A hole in my soul.
In giving ourselves a voice, we give ourselves hope.
Shrinking into myself. I.
I am. Shrinkingly. Unthinkingly. I.
Drink the gloom that fills the room. Inside.
Empty. Ever eating. Never full. I hide.
An appointment with a hole.
A hole in my soul.
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