Sometimes

Sometimes my sadness is soft.

Soft and familiar.

I can curl up against it, sink into it, surrendering to the quiet, familiar aching.

I know this pain and in a way it’s comforting to dissolve into a sorrow that asks nothing of me.

To relax and readjust to feeling hopeless again, but at least less nervous.

My heart stops racing as my head bows, my thoughts stop whirring as my energy slows, and in a way my depression is a break from agitated anxiety and frenetic irritability.

Sometimes it feels easier to be sad and disassemble all expectations.

People ask nothing of me when I lie in bed all day, inviting depression to tuck me under the covers.

I find solace hiding in my sadness when the world is exhausting and giving up feels like a much-needed vacation.

My depression is a “do not disturb” sign that I smear across my face, as my body crumples from too much softness and not enough structure, as I sacrifice my every day life and all ambition just so I can mimic not existing.

Soft and suffocating.

Sometimes my sadness takes over my life and I let it.

Invisible Illness

We don't talk enough about mental health.

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Dr. Rachel KallemWhitman

Written by

Educator, advocate, and writer who has been shacking up with bipolar disorder since 2000. The “Dr.” is silent. The bad jokes are loud.

Invisible Illness

We don't talk enough about mental health.

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