A Disappearing Door

I’ve been thinking about depression lately, now that may sound sad, but it’s not. I guess I should clarify, I have been thinking on how depression works for me. It’s works different ways in anyone who is afflicted by it. My reaction with depression could be ten thousand miles away from what say my sisters reaction with it would be. For me whenever I think of depression and how it feels, I imagine a room filled with safes.

Now not only are they filled with safes but once I enter the room the door just disappears. (What a shit door right?) These safes each hold a piece of myself within them, yet someone closed them and never gave me the combination. That there is how depression feels to me, like each part of myself is unreachable. I mean I’ve tried grenades, C4, those little popper bags that you can buy in any China Town.

FUN FACT: My class in high school found out that when you add (little popper bags + concrete walled staircase) you get an echoing sound that resembles a gun shot.

Yes! five hours of my life I’ll never get back, I didn’t get out of school until 5 pm that day…

Basically I’ve tried everything to open these stupid safes, nothing works and honestly I’ve been too tired to try sometimes. The door most of the time reappears and I am able to leave, yet I always feel different each time.

I find myself walking back into the room from time to time as if in spurts, my curiosity of what those safes may contain outweigh my need for peace or dare I say happiness. 

But that sound miserable so scratch that last bit. 

You know when you’re a kid and you get so excited about being an adult, as you get older you see yourself becoming more and more like you pictured.

Someday’s I find myself wondering what happened? I mean I can see versions of myself throughout time and some are spot on. There are some, more recent versions of me, that I find myself annoyed by even disgusted by one.

Become the person that you would be proud of, it’s a good stance to live by, to aspire to. Everyone has a darkness inside them, maybe it isn’t depression or any illness at all. Perhaps it’s smoking, drinking, or being a weird furry fetish person. (apologizes to any furry followers.) We all hold demons and it’s honestly not what defines us, instead it’s what we do after words that does. (It occurs to me that some may not know what a furry is…google it…hate me later.)

I recently had a sister tell me that I was hardly in their life, that because I wasn’t around to talk to that my input didn’t matter. It was a breaking point, it’s was even worse that I was at work when I read it. I spend so much time trying to crack safes to get the pieces of the past that I sometimes neglect the present, and I completely disregard the future.

I’d like to say that I’m going to change, that it’ll be instant. I’d rather not lie, it’ll take time, hopefully one day I’ll stop entering a room with a disappearing door.

 

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