I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I  want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the  skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades,  tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in  life. And I am horribly limited.

Sylvia Plath

And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

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Not always these days but still...

“Until when will this sadness last?” my demons asked me, to which I said, “Maybe it will last for a few more days or maybe a whole autumn or maybe when the cocoons of winter hatch into butterflies to greet the first blossoms of spring. Maybe it will last until my 25th birthday, and it would be the saddest birthday of any human being’s life, and I would blow the candles on the cake and wish for something like I hope to cease to exist even after my death because if I cry in heaven, all the angels would probably laugh at me because the life I lived was a joke. Maybe this sadness will last for so terribly long to the point that if I feel even the slightest of happiness, I’ll feel as if I don’t deserve it, for misery was all I’ve ever known. Maybe this sadness will last as long as the sun rises on the east and sets on the west, and I am a broken compass that’s wildly spinning as it tells me where the hurt is coming from which is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. Maybe this sadness will last like the life of my heart’s party and dance with every feeling that can possibly put a smile in my eyes, and in a single blink, my irises are oceans of sorrow I’d wish to drown in. Maybe this sadness will last all my life, and I still got a lot of living to do.”

I never know how to explain depression to someone. It’s so different for everyone and comes in so many different forms. Some people describe their depression as a weight that holds them down, ever-present and demanding of their time. Others describe it as a shadow that looms in the back of your mind, always taunting and jabbing and trying to tear you down. Some days, you just have thicker skin. And then sometimes, depression is described like drowning. It’s wading in an ocean of poison and barely catching your breath before you’re dragged back under. 
I am always fighting this constant battle with myself. I may smile and laugh and seem happy, but know that, somewhere, in the back of my mind I'm struggling. The happy interludes, the in-between where the weight doesn’t feel as heavy, are simply vacations from the reality that is my depression.

It makes me feel like a failure, no matter my successes. I feel worthless and like I’m a burden on everyone around me.

That life isn’t beating me, no way. I’m too stubborn for that. I have to pretend that there isn’t some rabid animal inside of me, clawing to get its grip around my throat and snuff out my life. 

People who don’t have depression don’t understand. But they can still be there for people like me. When they say something that scares you, don’t yell. Don’t get angry because you don’t comprehend how their mind works.

My mind is a scary place. I shouldn’t need to open up and spill my darkness for your compassion.