Depressed My Ass

The study table I never use is in a seemingly irreconcilable mess and my laptop is bruised and battered from the constant road trips I bring it out on. In fact I cannot remember the last time I left my house without it weighing down on my shoulders and I think I might never get used to the lightened load if I ever decide to leave it at home.

Teenage girls are complaining about suffering from depression on their brightly colored blogs; their laments a lackluster companion to the smiling selcas and YouTube videos that relentlessly vie for attention. Depression? What do you know about depression when your life is a backdrop of cafe hopping, OOTDs and an ego that’s constantly being inflated by your army of loyal readers? If having a generic bad day that involves you lying on your back in bed for 20 minutes wondering where your life is headed and then crawling under the showers to wash away the tear tracks caused by an inexplicable sense of failure translates into depression, being psychologically healthy would be a real rare trait.

Yes I’m complaining. Because the words cannot help but bubble over from the cauldron it has been forced to marinate in. We think we have it so bad, that our lives are a mess and conveniently use our occasional sadness as a pity card, a winning marketing strategy. Truth is, that sadness you think suffocates you on the rare days you succumb to it? That’s not depression, that’s called growing up. And growing up is hard. It’s not life threatening, neither can it be clinically diagnosed and printed upon a label you wear around your wrist. But growing up can keep you awake on many nights, tossing and turning till the sheets are rumpled and your sanity a jumbled mess on the ground. Some people have it tossed in their faces and others savour it served on a silver platter. Growing up sucks, but some of us just have it easier.

So please don’t pull out the insanity card and bemoan the sadness you have in your life. Because everyone has it, and when it really sits on the brink of your lucidity, it doesn’t feel like a popcorn kernel ready to explode. It’s the slight weariness and the white space you see when your thoughts empty from your mind. It’s the sleepless nights that have no beginning, the nights that even a tiny pink pill cannot bring you the repose you so desperately crave. It’s nothing.

Sleeping Death

I never knew that sleeping on the same bed could make us feel so far apart. That even as your warmth passes over in waves under the white sheets, we are cold inside. Then again, we’re both dead. At least you are at this very instant.

You’re not the person I fell in love with. Not now. This person that lays beside me motionless on this bed we should actually call a coffin. Save for the light snores that come in a satanic rhythm and the rising and falling of your chest, I am confident you’re already dead. You do not respond to my feather light touches, nor remember I once called out your name. You do not seek out my warmth the way you so feverently do when you’re awake. This thing we call sleep, it beckons you, whines for you. And when you give in, you leave the living behind to mourn for the dead.

Its not as poetic as propaganded. The light fluttering of lashes like butterfly wings preparing for flight, the curling of lips into a smile from a dream too surreal to be etched into memory, the twitching of facial muscles like ballerinas doing a dainty dance on his face. These, these are a lie. Watching someone sleep is like having to bear the uncertainty of life, the weight of losing someone to unconsciousness. Watching someone sleep and then regain life is like walking into a morgue and recognizing an old friend.

Every night, I sleep next to someone already dead. Maybe your heart is still beating, maybe your breaths are still strong, but your consciousness, your love, your memory, its all lost when you succumb to fatigue and the pull of unconsciousness. I lose you to a dream, I lose recognition of you in a thick haze. I cannot recognize you when you’re asleep.