I never really thought of myself as depressed.
Hell, my family certainly didn't talk about mental health. But even as a child, I've just always felt different, like there was a separation between me and the world. Imagine being an observer of your...
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There has always been a battle inside of me.
Call it depression, or simply call it sadness.
But when everything becomes too much, I picture exits when others would seek solutions. In my mind, death becomes a way of quieting inner negativity, and the end translates into freedom rather than something to be feared.
It's how I'm wired.
Wrong.
Flawed.
Different.
And honestly, I don't think that my darker thoughts will ever be completely extinguished. Like poison, they corrupt my way of thinking, my way of viewing the world. They distort every kind word, every happy moment, always compelling my brain to wait for the other shoe to drop.
And one of my only forms of release, picking up a paint brush:
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My paint cries for me. Words and darker thoughts that I can't express spill out onto canvas, drowning a white expanse in colorful strokes.
And for a moment, I am free. For a moment, stress leaves me, anxiety evaporates, and insecurities fade.
For a moment, I feel a little better.
Until... I don't again.
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