The thing about living with depression is that it sucks. A lot.

The things I’ve done, the ways I’ve acted, in down times. I never get to forget them. They’re just around the corner, every time. External reminders. Internal guilt. It weighs on me every day.

The depression is always there, like a river of gasoline through my veins. There are plenty of times when it’s dormant. There, but manageable. Not forgotten, but abated.

Happy days. Happy weeks. Happy months.

La la la la happy land.

But let’s not forget about that gasoline. Because the thing there, the thing about gasoline… it only takes a spark to set it off.

And every single time I fail, there’s a flame.

When I let Nelson down. When I write scenes that read contrived. When I skip the gym even though I know a huge source of EVERYTHING stems from how bad I feel about myself–and even though I know how much it would help my mood to get that much needed exercise. And then when I  still eat fast food at every chance. When I don’t clean the house. When I don’t cook dinner. When I spend money on things I don’t need. Money that Nelson makes, by the way, because he works his ass off to provide for us.

When I’m completely aware of how EASY it would be to fix all of those things–and yet still can’t make myself do it. The constant lethargy. It pulls pulls pulls me down.

When I feel fat. Ugly. Bad skinned. When I notice the wrinkles around my eyes in pictures. When my stomach’s the first thing that comes into view. Such vanity. I wish I could just let it go and be happy with who I am.

But I can’t.

And all that gasoline? And all those sparks?

They meet much too often.

Ka-fucking-boom.

And it sucks. A lot.

So much so that sometimes I spend the entire night unable to sleep, tossing and turning and lost in thoughts that grow darker with each minute, until I’m crying and getting out of bed so I won’t wake Nelson and ending up on the couch downstairs writing a blogpost at 6 in the morning.

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