It has long been understood that the world is always only half-lit
But why do we still cringe at the idea that all of us have dark parts left unseen?
I want to tell you what it feels like to lay awake in bed at three thirty five, with a wet pillow under your head, replaying stories of your past mistakes
I want to tell you what it feels like to wake up into the darkness of your room, your heart racing as your whole body shook while your hollowed eyes created rain with saltwater
I want to tell you that sometimes, when the sun is up, I pulled the covers over my head because I don’t want to open my eyes into the brightness, scared to death I might end up being blinded
I want to — no, I need to tell you what it’s like to not look at a knife or even just a needle without wondering what it feels like to prick, to cut your skin open just so you can figure out which part of your body ached the most as you play a game with death
Why are we so thrilled to romanticize depression but look at others sideways when they reek of emptiness?
I want to tell you what it feels like to have finished almost a quarter of your life but still feels like you are not doing anything right, anything significant, anything meaningful
Why can’t we stop talking about the weather, about last night’s news and yesterday’s lunch dates but shut up when we are confronted with questions about our demons?
Depression, man, it’s like driving in the dark at night. You hear sounds, you feel the coldness of the still air, but you can’t see anything. And you can’t stop driving, so you light your car’s lamp to guide you through the road, but even headlights are not enough. Nothing really ever is.