If depression transformed into a person the first thing I'd say to it is "FUCK YOU!!" and then promptly block it on all social media. I'd block and report it on every platform, block the network calls and texts, I'm not waiting for a response. Ain't no body got time to listen to those smooth lies.
I'd file for a protection order and press assault GBH and domestic abuse charges.
If depression was a person, maybe it would be a woman, because that clinging and suffocating behaviour can only be equated to that of an insecure woman's. Or maybe it would be a man, nothing quite compares to the mindfuck and games a man plays..
If depression was a person, I'd hire thugs to beat the crap out of her till she was comatose, she'd end up in the ICU and at night I'd taunt and traumatize her till she lost her mind and then smother her to death with a plastic bag while playing classic punk rock. There is no way I'm leaving the bitch alive, she's got to go. It's just like her to make you believe she won't be a problem any more, you let your guard down, let in some sunshine and happiness before she comes crushing back in like a tsunami snuffing out all the peace and light. She'll overstay, she was never welcome, leaving you cold, wet and dead inside. If only she'd leave.
If depression was a person I'd drop an atomic bomb on it's a*se, just to ensure that it wouldn't survive. If depression was a person, I'd make sacrifices to the ancestors for it to be banished. I'd beg the Gods that it mustn't be reborn, not even as a cockroach. I'd become an atheist, just so there'll be no life for it after death.
But depression is not a person, it's a state of my mind and I must tread carefully and handle my mental health with care.
I'd file for a protection order and press assault GBH and domestic abuse charges.
If depression was a person, maybe it would be a woman, because that clinging and suffocating behaviour can only be equated to that of an insecure woman's. Or maybe it would be a man, nothing quite compares to the mindfuck and games a man plays..
If depression was a person, I'd hire thugs to beat the crap out of her till she was comatose, she'd end up in the ICU and at night I'd taunt and traumatize her till she lost her mind and then smother her to death with a plastic bag while playing classic punk rock. There is no way I'm leaving the bitch alive, she's got to go. It's just like her to make you believe she won't be a problem any more, you let your guard down, let in some sunshine and happiness before she comes crushing back in like a tsunami snuffing out all the peace and light. She'll overstay, she was never welcome, leaving you cold, wet and dead inside. If only she'd leave.
If depression was a person I'd drop an atomic bomb on it's a*se, just to ensure that it wouldn't survive. If depression was a person, I'd make sacrifices to the ancestors for it to be banished. I'd beg the Gods that it mustn't be reborn, not even as a cockroach. I'd become an atheist, just so there'll be no life for it after death.
But depression is not a person, it's a state of my mind and I must tread carefully and handle my mental health with care.
I will be kind to myself, it's an illness. Depression may not be a person but it is a monster. The kind that turns days to night before sunset, leaving me catatonic.
Depression is a siren, singing sweet seductive haunting melodies, beaconing me to the sea even though it knows I can't swim. It's the song that pulls me under as I struggle to swim to the shore and the more I struggle the deeper I get pulled in by it's waves.
Depression is the friend I must make to stop the other bullies from beating me up on the play ground, at least it only takes my lunch money, it leaves no bruises like anxiety, at least not any visible ones. It hasn't let in those suicidal thoughts in a long while.
Depression is the baggage I carry with me, everywhere, into every conversation, even in silence. It's the illegitimate child I try to hide like I'm living in Victorian era England.
I wonder, will I ever be rid of it? Pray it be so, like an African born again charismatic pentecostal mother at 3 am praying against witchcraft, praying for her children, pray for me.
Depression is a siren, singing sweet seductive haunting melodies, beaconing me to the sea even though it knows I can't swim. It's the song that pulls me under as I struggle to swim to the shore and the more I struggle the deeper I get pulled in by it's waves.
Depression is the friend I must make to stop the other bullies from beating me up on the play ground, at least it only takes my lunch money, it leaves no bruises like anxiety, at least not any visible ones. It hasn't let in those suicidal thoughts in a long while.
Depression is the baggage I carry with me, everywhere, into every conversation, even in silence. It's the illegitimate child I try to hide like I'm living in Victorian era England.
I wonder, will I ever be rid of it? Pray it be so, like an African born again charismatic pentecostal mother at 3 am praying against witchcraft, praying for her children, pray for me.
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