Depression, Voiced.

Note: Earlier today, I found a prompt here on Prose.: “Write a poem about depression. How it feels. How you came out of it. How it has affected you. (no mass tagging please)”

It stuck with me. I decided to try to write about it, but eventually realized that I could not fully encapsulate everything I wanted to say, everything I wanted to convey, within the very restrictive word cap of the challenge: 15-250. This piece, at over a thousand words, is what I want to call the distilled essence of depression. Through it, I hope that any non-depressed readers with friends or family battling with the illness, will be able to understand some small portion of what their loved one is going through.

Read it. I don’t ask you to enjoy; simply, understand. Please, please, God, understand.

People (people here encompassing everyone from the average joe to even therapists and family members of people with depression,) often make one critical misunderstanding. It’s the reason why you always hear the same things after someone commits suicide: “I never would have guessed, they always seemed so happy, they were always so full of joy.” It’s the assumption that having depression means you’re always sad- that that’s the point, that the reasons depression is such a big horrible deal is because it sucks all the happiness, every last shred of pleasure, out of life. Anybody with depression can tell you a very different story. This one is a tiny piece of mine.

See, here’s the thing. You’re not always sad. You have good minutes, good hours, good days. You go to school and you go to your classes and you talk with your classmates and you can’t even imagine being sad in that moment; you’re joking, you’re laughing, you’re on a cloud. You go home and you flip on the TV and you turn on Skyrim and your mind melts into that wild fantasy world of monsters and magic, and nothing else matters; nothing can bring you down. You’re a warrior. You’re a sorcerer. You’re king of the world.

But then there’s the kicker. Your parents come home. You hand over the remote. You try to linger, but your mom says, “Don’t you have homework, sweetheart?” And what can you do? She’s right, you’ve got that World History assignment due tomorrow, and what about that English essay due on Monday? Three pages, remember? Or that sheet of problems for Geometry that you’ve been trying to tell yourself you’ve forgotten about for days.

Wow, you’ve got a lot on your plate, huh? Gee. You should get on that. But where should you start? You’ve got Geometry first thing in the morning, so that should be first priority, right? But you don’t know how to do those problems. You missed that day, remember? You didn’t go, because you were so close to cracking that you couldn’t drag yourself out of bed and by some miracle of the God you don’t believe in, you managed to pass it off to your mom as a bad stomachache.

Well, so you missed the day, so what? That’s your problem. The teacher told you to get the notes from a friend -why didn’t you tell her that you don’t have any?- so what’s the big holdup? And what if the notes you managed to find on the floor of the classroom weren’t clear enough? The teacher gives tutoring every day of the week except for Wednesdays, all you had to do was tell your mom you had to stay late one day. You know the teacher could’ve explained it in a way you understood, you know your mom would’ve been willing to pick you up late.

You’re too much of a coward, though, aren’t you? The idea of going up there and saying, I just don’t know, of telling your mom, I’m not the genius you think I am, it’s crippling. It makes you want to cry and, God, you hate crying.

Okay. Okay. Whatever. It’s one F. What’s one F? You’ll be fine. You can just let it slide, just this once. Why don’t you do that World History homework instead? That’s third period tomorrow, but all you have to do it answer some questions from the book, there’s only ten of them, you’ll be done fast. Now, where’d you put your book?

Oh, crap. It’s in the Journalism room, where you eat lunch, isn’t it? You left it there yesterday: The thing’s heavy as hell and your next class was on the other side of campus and you were already running late, so you had to run for it. You thought, I’ll pick it up at the end of the day, it’ll be fine. And then you forgot. Just like you forgot to pick it up today, too. Just like you forget everything. You’re so fucking forgetful. What’s wrong with you?

God, how many times have you done this? Can you even keep track anymore? You know they think you’re lazy, right? You’re a layabout. A nothing. You don’t care. You say, I’m sorry sir, I forgot it on my desk at home, and they hear, I’m lying through my teeth. Can’t you tell? I can’t make eye contact. I just didn’t do it. I just didn’t bother. I just don’t care. You know it’s what they hear. You know.

So what are you gonna do now, huh? Grab the book at lunch and do the work real quick before class? You know you won’t. You know you’re just gonna forget again. But will it really be forgetting? Or will you remember that it’s there and that you have to do the work, but you’re damn hungry and that cool girl with the Marvel tote bag who you’ve been trying to make friends with for weeks has finally noticed your Iron Man folder and it’s just one F, right? What’s one F. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

You know that’s just what’s gonna happen. You know it, you can tell. See? You’re already thinking it, you’re already planning it out in your head. God, what’s wrong with you? What is wrong with you? Why are you so lazy, so awkward, so forgetful, so pathetic?

Why are you so tired all the goddamn time?

Why can’t you decide anything on your own?

Why don’t you ever take initiative?

Why do you get so angry when the TV remote doesn’t work?

Why do you get so defensive when your mom asks you what’s wrong?

(It’s because you don’t know. And later, when you do, it’ll be because you can tell she won’t understand, won’t believe.)

What’s wrong with you? You’re fourteen, you’re in eighth grade! High school’s next year, the world is your oyster! You can do anything, be anyone! You’re making decisions now that will affect the rest of your life! You’re supposed to be happy! You’re not supposed to be failing five of your classes, you’re not supposed to be a part of the background, you’re not supposed to dread waking up in the morning so much that you’re afraid to fall asleep!

What’s wrong with you? Oh, you know what it is. You know. It’s what everybody else already thinks. It’s what they see when they look at you, like it’s written on your skin, on the shadows under your eyes and along the ribs that show through your skin (it’s not like you starve yourself, at least; you’re not that pitiful. You’re just never hungry. You’re just never hungry). You just don’t care.

You’re fourteen and the entire world’s ahead of you, you’ve got the vocabulary of a college graduate and the IQ of the average physicist.

And you just

Don’t

Care.

What’s wrong with you?

You’re supposed to be happy.

“You’re not depressed. You aren’t. You’re happy.” -Mom.