“You should talk more.”

I was diagnosed with depression at the age of 17. That was a while ago. I don’t want to be specific because I suppose, it gives this thing a lifespan of it’s own. A life-force that’s been growing with me this whole time – that terrifies me. So, for that reason, I am not ready to admit just how long it has really been.
I’ve been told that I need to talk.
“You should be more open.”
“Don’t keep things to yourself.”
Yes, a lot of people want me to talk – to open these deep crevice’s that I can’t even peer into. To pull away the thinning mask that hides away the decaying mess that I really am. Talk. I’m not sure I know how to do that. I never have.

I’ve tried. I’ve tried to talk – to share bits and pieces of what I could manage; despite how difficult or how disjointed it might have been. I did try. I’ve always met the same responses.
“I’ve been depressed before – and look at me now.”
“I know what it’s like but I didn’t let it get to me, I fought it.”
“You have to keep trying – keep fighting, it will go away.”
Oh and here’s my favorite one. A classic.
“Pray about it.”
There it is – the repetitive cycle I fall into. A pit of judgment and misunderstanding. Misinterpretations and confusion all huddled into a big, messy, ball. They think I will this pain onto myself – I must want it the way it’s never quite left. They assume I’m not trying hard enough – I’m weak – a quitter – unable to sum up the strength or courage to jump over this hurdle. Instead, I stand in front of it, waiting helplessly for it to move. That’s what they think – those are the images and notions that barrel through their minds. Pitiful eyes and tilted lips all trying to fake sympathy for something they fail to comprehend. Something they don’t care enough to comprehend. Why should they – they don’t feel this thing gnawing away at their soul; draining their being and slowly thinning every fibre of themselves. They don’t drown in fresh air; suffocate amidst other people or cry just because – because of the overwhelming, unexplainable tear within. They don’t – they just don’t feel it so how would they then understand. I don’t expect them too, I admit – I don’t understand this mess either.

These are the reasons I choose not to talk – I find myself in the middle of a room all void of sound and color and I’m there; being pressed back into that dark abyss that I fought to come out off. They push me back into that hole and suddenly, I am burnt with regret and a lasting sting of rejection. I should have never opened my mouth – I should have just sat there and smiled. I should have just smiled.


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