Paracosm

hello again.

How silly of me to think that everything would be different after leaving. I guess I forgot that I have to make my house a home. I have a roof, some walls, four windows and a door. A different address, new keys, and entryways. But it's just as empty as it was before. No lack in material items. There's a lack in love, warmth, and laughter. I guess I never knew what made a house feel like home. But I think that's where I'd start.

How silly was I for thinking depression wouldn't follow me as if it was merely a symptom of my sick environment. Something that once I was out would leave me be. I was 9 years old when depression introduced itself to me. All I ever knew before was anger and learned self-hatred to mask the hurt I didn't have the words to speak about—not that anyone would hear me if I did. So, over the years, depression made its home in me. Coming and going as it pleased. Letting me think I've gotten better just to turn the key and unpack its luggage. In the beginning, we fought a lot, and I hated it. I did everything I knew to take it by the horns and toss it out. But, I grew tired as some more years passed. Those around me weren't helping me, only feuling depression. Their words fed it often. it grew pretty strong. Before I knew it, depression was comforting me with whispers of, "Maybe im your only true friend."

And hey, you don't leave true friends behind, right? Needless to say, I was silly to think I could leave it behind in my childhood homes. It took a minute to find me, but it found me just fine. Covered me like a weighted blanket, "Hey. I'm here for you. You know me. I was your friend for so long. If you want out, you've gotta fight for it. It'll be so exhausting, and you might come out looking rough. But you can fight if you want." It lulls me to sleep as I shake my head. Maybe if we are friends you won't treat me so badly. You see— It's just— I'm tired of making an identity out of my suffering, but im so tired of fighting and seemingly getting nowhere.