Depression

I am depressed. See, it can not be as simple as that. One word is not enough to describe the sea of emotion is drown in, wave after wave washing over me, watering me with its sorrows. Drowning, choking. If this were the elixir of life, I would never die. As it is, I do not die, but I wish I did. I am depressed. No, it is not that simple. It can never be. Depression is not one word. That is the problem with labels. You think you understand the universe behind a concept, an idea, just because you create a word for it, and/or, you know that word. No. It is not that. Depression is so much more. It is a world unto itself. A world you drown in. each thought, each and everything making you feel more and more like you want to drown, like you should drown, like you deserve to drown. You are worthless. You have no purpose. No meaning. That is what depression is. No, that still isn’t enough. You go deeper and deeper into the quicksand of your mind, your sadness, drowning, darkening. The narrow, dark corridors, recesses of your mind, just become one. One long corridor, one flickering bulb, on, off, on, off, on, off. You count. It doesn’t turn on. When you accept it, on. Flicker of hope. Off. Darkness and despair. It begins to become bland, on. More hope. So on, so forth. Depression is a state of mind. A problem. Depression is so much more than one word. I am depressed. I think about killing myself when I walk to throw out the trash, I think of it when I work at a job others would kill for – maybe they should kill me – I think of it when crossing the road. Cars swerve around me, never hitting me. Angry horns, I hope those cut off the sound in my ears, start chopping my veins with the sharpness of their sound, crushing my neck, my head, my chest, whatever part will cause me to die with the bluntness of their sound. I don’t even mind a painful death. As long as I can get the sweet release, doesn’t matter. I have thought about killing myself so many times. This blasted religion thing gets in the way. I think about how much I want to die when I bite into the cold turkey and rye I get every afternoon. Hoping I could choke on it. Envying the cold, blissfully dead turkey. I think about it when I drive home every day. Blasting my precious rap, sometimes metal, loud, louder than the sounds of the angry horns around me, hoping maybe it will distract me and drive me into someone. Then I could die. Depression is so much more than a word, it is, hahaa, a lifestyle. That was a nice line. I rather liked it. Cliched maybe, a bit. Overused, sure. True, very much so. That last one is all that matters.

Ahmed was depressed, severely so. He tried his best to function in this world with its masks and mirrors, fake smiles, fake laughter, with the appearances the world put on. He couldn’t. he tried his best, because he didn’t want to disappoint his parents, the ones he didn’t talk to much anymore. He could not really lie to them, that was not how he was raised. Habits of many years were hard to break.

Ahmed was depressed, severely so. He tried his best to live in a world that was all a stage. Itwas hard, and every few months, he would get kicked out of a job. He would get kicked out of his apartment. A few times, he had moved cities. He got to his job this morning, hoping all along the way that he would get hit by a truck, an eighteen-wheeler, wouldn’t that be fun? He would settle for a painful motorcycle crash too, crushing his body, trampling over him, leaving a straight line of tire marks, blood spurting out of his mouth, he shivered at that last thought, blood made him queasy.