Its name is Prudence. It inhabits me. Is me. Convinces me we are one and the same. Prudence tells me that I am hopeless. Useless. She is my black dog.
This is my depression.
It’s an imperfectly round ball, lodged in my left side. Cover my stomach with sticky cold gel and you’ll see it there on ultrasound. It aches. Pulses. A dull, localised pain. I want it surgically removed.
This is my depression.
It’s the Lana Del Ray album I listened to on repeat while in the hospital. Its eerie, lonely, melancholy. My inpatient soundtrack. It sings my sadness.
This is my depression.
It is fat, hot tears. Short sharp outbursts. Long cathartic sobs. And silence. The quietest of silences.
This is my depression.
It’s a pair of glasses splattered with dirt so I can’t see anything clearly. The world is distorted and so are the interpretations I make of it. I’m bereft. I’ve lost my compass.
This is my depression.
It’s a skin so thin that everything seeps through. I’m porous. Bloated with sad. Life is an assault. Everything is too noisy, too bright, too fast. I can’t keep up. I’m left behind.
This is my depression.
It’s in my throat. The length of my neck. It throbs. It’s hard to…
This is my depression.
It’s a heavy black coat, too warm for the weather. I drag it around. The thick, inconvenient weight of it. It’s burdensome. Fits poorly. It doesn’t suit me. Black is not my colour. Each of my movements is labored. I misjudge the speed of oncoming traffic. I’m too slow as I walk through the barrier at the train station. It slams in front of me before I can pass. A thump of metal. And I’m locked out.