It seeps out of her pores. The thick, black tar. Her joints ache unable to move from the sludge that encases her body.

The pulse in her wrist builds up. Every heartbeat, asking to be released. To relieve the pressure. Anything to help relieve the pressure. Sleep barricades itself behind her eyes. Every second, every minute, every hour a fight to stay awake. And when it becomes too much she succumbs to the sweet embrace of the bed like that of a lover.

Tears spill heavily through eyelashes as she stares empty eyed at nothing. There is no reason to cry.

Every day is a fight. Rationally there is nothing to be upset about. Yet the depression demon is there. Fighting like hell. Telling her she’s worthless. Telling her the world is better without her. Feeding her lies. And they’re winning. Every day the rational side gives in just a little more because what is the fucking point of all of this. In the end does it even fucking matter. No one will care. No one will remember. No one remembers now. Why continue to suffer?

@JaneJane

A neighbour that knocks on the door unexpectedidly, takes control of your mind, you try to talk, but no one really gets it, so you learn to deal, you cling to whatever hope you have in you, God finally frees you and it's like your mind can breathe again, like basking in fresh, clean air, and suddenly you want to live, you want to experience everything God has in store for you. Trying to help someone you love is harder... they push you away, they don't see that you understand, but if you can hang on you can God can use you to pull them free too. Depression is like a long, dark tunnel, you can't see the light until you're finally standing in it.

She received his birthday card.

Her tendency was to presume that he was just doing it to check it off his list. Because, to him a birthday card was just a requirement; it was a minimum requirement. And, he wouldn’t want to be called out for failing to provide the minimum. Because, he really didn’t care. He just felt obligated. That’s what she wanted to believe.

But then she realized that he would say, “I did it because I love you. Because your birthday is important to me. Because, you changed my life.” And then she would wonder why there wasn’t a brand-new car, or a brand-new house, or a brand-new whatever.

And he would probably say, “Is that what you need from me to know that I love you?”

And she would say, “You don’t love me. You say you love me but I know that you don’t.”

And he would get angry, and leave dejected, because he doesn’t care. Because, if he cared he’d stick it out and make her feel that he loved her.

And she’d worry that they were incompatible, because he couldn’t make her feel that way. And, in another year she’d get another birthday card from him, and worry the same things, and feel the same way, and he’d do the same thing over and over. Because, maybe, maybe he actually did love her.