Portrait of Depression 2015

I’m having a Marilyn Monroe moment.

My phone is in my hand and I am itching for human contact. But I can’t do it. I can’t reach out, can’t dial, can’t talk. At the same time all I want to be is alone, preferably in the dark silence.

Tears form in my eyes and I stare at the screen, paralyzed.

It hurts. Everything hurts.

I am the child of summer. I was raised in the sun. So why now do I fear the season of light and warmth? I’ve ceased trying to understand. It is some chemical imbalance after all, out of my control.

Or seemingly so.

Even after:
Eating well
Exercise and activity
Deep breaths
A support network
Water

I have failed again to control my own brain.

It’s not coincidence that it was worst in 3 summers: when my child was born, when I separated from her father and the summer everything was now okay and I spent nights crying in the psych ward. The past years have been not as bad in comparison. They’ve made me soft, made me let down my guard. I was unprepared this time.

And how can this be any more difficult than what I’ve already survived? I’ve been through worse and come out shining. Life has never been better. This should be a piece of cake. But it’s not.

I say I’m okay but I’m not.
I want help but don’t know how to ask.
I’m desperate to talk, to hang out, but I’m afraid you won’t understand that you will think me weak, or a drama queen, or otherwise not worthy of your time.

I am tired of being sad.

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