Don’t Call Me ‘Lucky’ For Surviving My Depression
I always struggled to breathe, my body would shake in flashes of movement as I desperately reached out for any form of life support.
Don’t look at me with those judgemental eyes and tell me that I “don’t understand.”
Of course, I understand. I’ve disappeared into oblivions of darkness. I’ve sat with my demons as they’ve masked themselves as alluring angels before sucking me into amnesia of sinister thoughts, crawling through my mind into the depths of the lightless night. I’ve been forbidden from the freedom of sleep, kept up by itching my crawling skin that’s inflamed my bones into a fury of fire and ash. Beating furiously, my heart has desperately tried to claw through the bones of my crumbling skeleton. Drowning into the depths of life, I’ve choked and chased after the surface desperate to catch a breath yet, the demons of my past dragged me further, clutching my ankles and ripping my feet to shreds, refusing to release me from their grasp.
Don’t tell me that I’m one of the lucky ones.
I’ve cried into my bed sheets at 2am, with tear stained cheeks and breath smelling of stale whiskey. I’ve pulled my hair out while screaming into the deafening silence of the night, begging for the pain to end. All I wanted was for someone to be there, to feel the warmth of their skin and the reassurance of their words to tell me that I was going to be okay. No one ever did that.
No one noticed that I was sinking deeper and deeper. No one ever looked out for me. I was left feeling the utmost hollowness I’ve ever had the sheer capacity to feel.
I told you I understand.
I spent years fake laughing at people’s jokes, maybe even hysterically laughing at their inability to notice the lack of soul behind my lifeless eyes. Every night I’d drag my body up to my room, I’d shut my door to the world and breathe in the sense of relief. This is the place where I’d perform all of my rituals of self-hatred. Sometimes, I’d throw my insides up in the faith that the emptiness within me would stop feeling quite so heavy. Constantly, I’d scar my skin until the blood would weep out in the hopes of it draining me of all my sadness. Necking a bottle of vodka, I’d hope that the spinning of my head would help my life to fast-forward and merely flash by.
I always struggled to breathe, my body would shake in flashes of movement as I desperately reached out for any form of life support. All I ever wanted to do was cry, just to know that what I was feeling was real and not merely a figment of my imagination.
I knew when I hit rock bottom for I began to question whether I possess monsters or if I simply was the monster. Contamination spread through my body, intoxicating my organs and replacing all of my goodness with poison.
Just because I’ve put my demons to bed doesn’t mean I’ve not slept in their arms.
So, don’t you dare tell me I’m one of the lucky ones. You can’t mistake my strength for luck. 
