This Fog Is Not My Home
Usually my depression is a fog. It descends upon me for days at a time, letting no light escape or pierce through the veil. I thrash about until I can disperse the dark clouds and let the sun warm my face.
Sometimes my depression is a giant wrecking ball; swinging into my gut with such magnitude that it knocks me off my feet. I did not see it coming and it throws me off balance.
Sometimes my depression sneaks up on me like a thief of the night; it only steals my joy and zeal. It leaves behind melancholy and sorrow.
Other times my depression is a shadow boxer and catches me unawares with its right hook. Once in awhile I can block its jabs, but other times I become bruised and bloodied.
It’s a rare occasion, but sometimes my depression is the black abyss. I cling to the sides of the cliffs and latch on. Through sheer willingness and stubborn determination, I’m struggling not to fall down the rabbit’s hole. For if I fall, will I ever return? Will I fall endlessly or will I float into the aether? Will the black gnarled hand grasp me, or will I lurch myself away from the surface in time?
Sometimes my depression is the River Styx. I don’t know when I’ll get there, but I know the destination. Only decay and darkness lead down that path. I turn around and do not look back.
At times my depression is a cancer, eating away all the healthy cells, robbing me of my drive, and leaving me with a flesh shell of rot and ruin. I can’t stop it spreading.
My depression returns to me as an old friend. Someone I know well, but am never elated to see. My depression is a dubious gift as it both robs me of my creativity but bestows it to me as well.
I will continue the fight against my depression until it is banished from where I dwell. I will vanquish it with the sword of levity. This fog is not my home.