A Letter To Depression

Dear Depression,

Exactly a year ago you came to my door. You knocked, and I ignored. Then you rang the door bell obnoxiously. Ring ring ring. I turned the TV and radio up louder, but nothing could drown you out. I was finally pushed to open the door. You stayed a long time. You were an irritating, dis-respectful visitor. You put your feet up on my coffee tables, you didn't ask when you wanted something to eat, and you spoke of issues I had no interest in. Your company was annoying, and your presence was darkening.

I could not convince you to leave. You became the ever present shadow in my living room-the dark figure in the corner of the room. I tried to ignore you-I thought of you as a piece of furniture. But unlike a coat hanger, you had soul. You had personality. You had spirit. You had possession. 

I would sleep on the sofa in those days, too scared of my own bedroom. I would live and breathe art-paint was under my fingernails and poetry was scribbled on the corners of newspapers and napkins. I was pure expression and honest thought. I was so alive, yet so fucking dead. 

Those days passed by slowly. Eventually though, I started drawing smiles on my foggy, rainy windows. I began taking walks. I began answering my phone. You didn't leave yet, but your presence was quieter. You spoke fewer words and you asked for less things. We interacted very rarely during those days.

Then one morning in March, five months after diagnoses, pills, and emotions-I woke up. I went to go butter my toast, and I turned around, and realized you were not there. I searched the house, calling for your name-"Depression! Depression! Where are you?" You were gone. You left no note (you never were that considerate), and you took your coat and belongings. All that was left was the screen door you didn't close properly. 

I went throughout my day without you. Then, day by day I continued. I went months without you. I wondered about you sometimes. And now, a whole year later, my house is filled with light and your presence is not missed. I swear to God, I barely give you a single thought.

Depression, I raise my glass to myself, for surviving the visit you made to me. But with all my heart I say, I sure as hell don't miss you at all.

[Written exactly one year from the day I was diagnosed with a clinical depression. I am grateful for what time has healed.]