It’s around 1230 that clarity comes. And no, I don’t mean clarity that this is all for the best — clarity that I really don’t in fact love you. None of the things you said you thought might happen. I mean clarity that I’m depressed. Really depressed. It’s the inability to eat. Or sleep. The wanting to hide from the sun. The lack of enthusiasm for doing anything. The irritability. The feeling of being sad and generally having no reason for it.
The real clarity comes in the form of figuring out I’ve been depressed for a very, very long time. It’s easier to hide behind the constant inhilation of weed and the ensuing hunger and exhaustion that comes from it. Easy to eat then when the effects of the drug tell me I’m famished. Easy to fall into dreams when my eyes droop shut.
(It’s also easy to bury my head into your chest and sob when you can tell something is wrong and ask if I need to just cry it out.) I don’t get to do that anymore, though.
My depression (and anxiety — because that’s been running rampant too ) manifests itself in horrible ways. Distance. The feeling of being alone. The feeling that no one cares. Anger. Panic attacks. Pushing people I love away. It truly is an unforgiving disease. Not only does it make you feel horrible, it also affects the way you treat people. It causes hurt to those around you. Creates more pain where there is already pain.
So I’m depressed, right. Have been for a long, long time. But at least I had your chest to bury my head into when the world felt like too much. At least I had you to watch TV with when all I wanted to do was hide from the outside world and lay in bed. Except now I don’t. Now I’m alone. Now, the pain slams full force into me like the waves that crashed into the rocks on our last trip to the beach. Freezing cold and foggy. You sitting on the blanket bundled up and trying not to shiver. Me standing on the rocks and looking out into the ocean terrified of how small I am. There are no arms to hold me at night. No legs to tangle mine with and find comfort in. No laughing at something funny on the TV. There’s just me. Just me unable to pretend anymore. Just me and my depression and my anxiety and my utter loneliness.
For what it’s worth, I know that you couldn’t save me from myself. I know that. I know that I bury myself into your crevices so that I can find a temporary reprieve from my pain. I know that my distance and irritability and confusion hurt you. I know that I’m the only one that can get myself better. I also know that having you hold me made me feel tethered. Safe. Comforted. Loved. I know that we were both hurting and you left because my depression (and its manifestations) makes you sad too. But we were supposed to conquer everything together. Thick and thin. Joy and depression. Emptiness and ecstacy.
But yea, I understand that I made you sad.
(It still feels like you should’ve stayed.)