“There’s a name for all this. A “to make a very long story short” ten letter word: depression”
Much appreciation to guest contributor, Bridgette Saunders!
I’ve stopped eating with others and have begun consuming myself instead. I aspire to grow miniscule, to protrude out less, to scale down my five foot nine frame to a mere five inches so that I can move and the earth below remain unmoved. And from this new-found position I can both be and not be when in a crowd, I can be a fragment of a human as if someone dropped a crumb of themself on the carpet from jostling around on a plate. And if people inquire of where I’ve gone, maybe a rumor will swirl that I’ve been gobbled up by some forest as that’s the most romantic scenario I can conjure up.
But in this state I won’t have to answer for my inadequacy, for the overwhelming sadness, for the fear of appearing anything less than grateful to be alive with upturned lips. I won’t have to add colorfulness to my monotone voice or hide my apathy. This invisibility permits numbness.
There’s a name for all this. A “to make a very long story short” ten letter word: depression. It feels so rigid and universal when the illness feels remarkably individual and tailored to me.
But I’m supposed to be human and stay human, and upright and life-sized. Autolysis or self-consumption is not allowed. I have loved ones to love and accomplishments to accomplish. And instead of taking it a day at a time, smaller increments feel more plausible. So hours are my friend now and “trying” carries much more value than it has before.