Depression is breathing down my neck and after years of sprinting in the opposite direction, I forgot depression’s arms offer not only sorrow, but false comfort. I forgot a tiny part of me would want to relax into depression’s embrace.
I’m just so tired.
All I want is to stop, to rest. To wear sweatpants and curl up under the covers. Just until I’m no longer tired. Just for an hour or week or month.
But depression isn’t rest.
And it doesn’t allow me to get back up when I’ve had enough.
So I remind myself: I’d rather be tired than numb. I’d rather fall into bed at the end of a long day than live there. I’d rather have bloodshot eyes than eyes that have stopped seeing. I’d rather cry than not feel.
I remind myself: I am tired and I am alive.
I am alive.
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.”
― Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar