Every time I say the words, “depression”, “anxiety”, i wish had replaced them with “restlessness”, “sadness”, or “dejection”.
I live in a world that is always
running after taboos and for a
brief second I let myself think, that
maybe, just maybe, we are somewhere close to respecting the mass that lives off triggers but all I see pouring out of their shiny mouths and educated tongues is indifference.
By indifference, I mean alternatives like yoga, meditation, spending some time with my friends, eating healthy, a smoke sesh, etc etc. How do I tell them that the safest coping mechanism would be putting a gun to my head and pulling the trigger, without having them tell me that suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
I don’t think they realise that that’s the point of coping mechanisms.
Apparently, I am suicidal because the boy I am in love with doesn’t love me back. And I may be depressed because I still think about my last relationship. And I am definitely anxious just about being broke.
Yes, of course, it has nothing to do with the chemicals inside my brain, because clinical depression is a hoax and suicidal people don’t really do anything if they’re talking about it.
It’s funny how I can still be passed off as crazy.
Sometimes, I feel we, as people, don’t realise the magnitude of these terms before passing them off as a human experience.
You see, suicidal tendencies don’t go away with a warm cup of tea, however, I do escape them by always keeping a safety pin in my wallet.
On better days,
I make an effort to hide them
and not be too careless while
taking the joint when I’m sitting
in a circle.
On bad days, however,
I wish our palms don’t get too
sweaty because you have a habit
of rubbing circles on my wrists.
You see, depression isn’t a lover and won’t walk away because they realise they’re too toxic.
Depression does not fade away
with mornings spent in my bed, and days and nights wasted in
smoke; I do.
On those days, I am a coward
and I’m just waiting for a call.
The only person who has
ever really seen me anxious
is my roommate. It starts off
with me covering my face
with my hands, and when my
whimpers get too loud, only
because I’m trying to keep
them down, she looks at me,
scared, but all she ever does is
ask me to calm down.
Anxiety walks around, hand in
hand with triggers; another name
for me when it hangs
over my head would be avoidance.
I feel like my friends take it
too lightly when I ask them to
play a UNO game with me every