Of Days Like Sandpaper

I came across an explanation once, that said functional depression is the kind that makes you forget the steps to a task, so your mind thinks it overwhelming. And I don’t know what kind of depression I have, or if I have it at all; if I’m not just lazy, or sleep deprived, or ungrateful, or just physically crippled.

All I know is that I can lie down in a room with every surface overflowing with old clothes and notes and used make-up bottles and stationery and technology and layers upon layers of dust and grime, and know that it is not fine yet not care anyway,

All I know is that I sleep in and can’t cook and don’t work as I am always tired and my flesh prison is always aching or not listening to me.

All I know is I skip classes or attend and don’t take notes, start projects but never finish them, makes lists and delay completing each item, again and again and again, even though I know better.

(Am I just entitled and vapid and useless? Do I not even have a reason for it?)

All I know is that I am exhausted – after I shower; after I clean; after I climb up and down the stairs once; after I wake up. Exhausted, and scared of my inability and my instability of body and mind.

To me, depression is neither as black as the void or as white and fuzzy as fog; it is simply that moment (upon moment upon moment, until it is a day in a moment) of numbness and wrongness when one puts on clothes that rub their skin strange, when one sits on their legs too long, when one writes without thinking or feeling – when words are no longer coherent descriptors, just pain sharp bright tired tired tired

Depression, to me, is not knowing what anything is, least of all your own existence.

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