Broken (in the best possible way)

I’m in that bad part of depression. That step past sad. The step into numb. It’s not a good numb. It’s uncomfortable and out of control and I wonder if I’m even real.

And instead I look at these unopened emails from friends and family and colleagues until I have memorized the subject lines by heart and think about how strange it is that they probably think that I’m ignoring them when in fact I am utterly haunted by them.

If I ever exchange vodka for running-on-purpose it’ll be a pretty good sign that I’m in a cult and need rescuing.

Life is full of these moments that are supposed to be amazing but end up being questionable at best.

People without depression won’t understand that, but the fatigue of mental illness makes your very body a prison.

I tell myself I will be me again soon. But until I am, I may be a broken dove, reminding others of the terrible but fantastic visions that come with an unquiet mind and the strange burden of sometimes becoming a shadow.

Sometimes these essays are a way to reach out from the safety of my quiet room. Sometimes they are letters to myself.

One friend is a lot. It’s one more than I’ve had at many times in my life.

Forgive yourself. For being broken. For being you. For thinking those are things that you need forgiveness for.