Depression is knowing you have to take out the garbage so your partner won’t yell at you, so you walk it outside with bare feet, not caring how cold it is.
Depression is knowing you have to walk the dogs because you are responsible for their wellbeing, and losing track of time mid-walk, causing you to stare blankly down the street through the falling snow for what feels like tens of minutes.
Depression is desperately trying to find someone who feels the same — just to reassure yourself that you’re not alone — but not wanting to open up to people you know, so you end up watching movies and short films about characters that almost seem like they would understand.
Depression is realizing that you smell horrible after repeatedly choosing not to bathe or brush your teeth for the past few days, so you force yourself into the tub and end up spending fourty-five minutes laying on the porcelain floor with the nozzle raining its semi-warm water over your body.
Depression is looking in the fridge every hour or so because you can feel yourself getting hungrier, but every time you decide not to eat anything you have because “what’s the point?”
Depression is yearning to be the productive member of society you know you were supposed to grow up to be, but by the time you finally muster up the energy to print out some résumés and hand them out around town, you only find that no employer in their right mind would call back an applicant with such a large gap in work experience.
Depression is spending every morning looking for a new sense of hope, and spending every afternoon giving up all over again.
Depression, for me, is an eleven-year-long struggle of varying degrees of severity peppered with the coming and going of pills, therapies, and judgemental stares.
Depression is a constant.
But even if it’s constant, I know it’s okay. Because, so far, I’m still alive. And that’s enough for me.