Depression is an unmade bed. It’s a reminder that I’m not normal, and that I will never be. Staring at the tousled sheets and pillows falling everywhere, it’s heartbreaking to stare at how I strive so much to gain control of everything; even if it’s making a bed. Whenever I’m succumbed with the weight of depression, I can’t get out of bed, and that’s when the monsters in my head come after me.

It’s those mornings I wake up unwell and exhausted because my thoughts kept me up through the night, even when I shouldn’t have anything to worry about. I feel like my sole existence is detrimental to myself and people around me, and it even sometimes comes to a point where I feel I am better off dead. That’s a sad way to live, it’s a harsh reality to me, knowing that I can’t even handle myself.

For years, and years I had perfected this mask of being a strong willed and charismatic character who could do anything I put my mind to. When hidden behind this facade I was afraid of anything, everything, and even the mask I wore to protect others from seeing what I truly am. I was facing demons outside and letting the ones inside consume my sanity.

This is a curse.



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