No one can write depression. Not really. It's too banal. It's the pile of clothes on your floor that you don't have the energy to pick up and put in the washer. It's the dirty dishes in the sink that you can't clean. It's the thousand minute thoughts firing in your mind that convince you that you are worthless, useless, and a complete failure. It's crying in the dark, using your hand to muffle your wailing. It's a vicious bitterness that makes you isolate yourself because you can't stand to see other people who are living a life without depression, who have good things happen to them while you relentlessly struggle under the burden of hardship and poverty.
I know there was a time when I was happy. I must have been carefree for a time. I just can't remember. I don't want to remember. Memory is no solace.
It all goes back to my father, dead now for nine years. I sometimes question why I've kept going when his death destroyed everything. There is nothing left. The world can never be what it was. It can never be beautiful or good or safe again. I am this absent thing. I am haunted. I am furious. I am unraveling. I am insane with grief. I am dying a slow death, year after year after year.
I think my sadness has turned to despair. The sadness was bearable because it was tinged with a hope that maybe life would get better. As the years have passed, I've seen that loss piles onto loss, the hole of grief deepens. Once the hope dissolves, then despair sets in. I am so exhausted with pretending that I'm okay or that I'm going to be okay. I am tired of this narrative of strength and resilience. God, I am so done with it. The heartache is just too intense. Some of us do not recover. Some of us grieve forever. Some of us are destroyed and there's nothing left. We have no more to give.