Depression to me is so much more than what a simple definition can let on. I like to call it the secret killer. Depression is a mental illness that affects every aspect of my life. I find it very difficult to get up out of bed most days. It cripples me, and makes every day a new struggle.
I get the question, “Are you okay?” practically every day. And I still have no response for that. How do you answer a question that you yourself can’t even answer? And no you can’t help me, because this problem can’t be fixed with kind words or small gifts. This is something that I just deal with because nothing else can be done about it. No I am not suicidal, and yes I have already gone to a doctor about this many times. This isn’t something that you can study, and read about and suddenly become an expert on it. This is something that is different for every person with no real “cure.”
This is my invisible crutch that I carry, and even an invisible man couldn’t help hold this up.
This is my weakness that sends me into a downward spiral of emotions, that leaves me stranded at the bottom of an emotional well. A well that is almost always full with problems, and feelings. But yet this well has it’s own gravity that holds those stuck just beneath the surface; you can see the world thriving around you, and yet you can’t reach out those few inches to touch it.
Depression is my secret killer, that stalks from afar shouting at every imperfection. My secret killer that strangles me without the need to make contact. The secret killer that has me tied around his little finger, and can send my world burning with just the snap of a finger.
Interpreting the World through my eyes 