Depression: An Explanation

Imagine it like a black slug, feeding on me, leeching off what is left of my happiness. Sitting deep in the pit of my stomach growing larger stronger with every day that goes by that I'm not okay. I have good days. Days where I feel the slightest bit lighter. Like the shackles that tether me to sadness loosen just enough to let me move, to let me smile, to let me think that I am happy. The black slug is still nestled deep inside me, invading my body like a parasite, only these days I feel stronger, like I can beat it, like I can somehow make it go away. But it is impossible, as impossible as bringing someone back to life, bringing me back to life. Bad days. Days where the black slug over takes my entire body. My thoughts. My actions. My identity. It moves its way up to my chest, sitting on my ribs, oozing around my heart, filling me up. These days, it takes all I have to get out of bed. Just to take a few steps, because there is a 50 pound weight sitting on my entire body, pushing me farther and farther into a nightmare. Into the darkness. These are the bad days. Some people don't understand. They don't understand how I can't speak to strangers, seemingly harmless people, to my family, to my friends. My mother is naive, pushing the thoughts that I'm worse than I seem to the back of her mind. People don't understand the fact that I have cried so much I cannot do it anymore. I'm emotionless, a zombie, merely surviving, not living. They don't notice my calls for help, because I am so far into a black hole, so deep in a pit of mental illness, that my screams are silenced by fake laughs, fake smiles, a second life. They do not understand how it how hard it is to be asked “why are you so happy”, be known as one of the seemingly happiest people. In reality, mental illness surrounds my entire life like a bubble that I don't even have the motivation to pop. It holds me in its arms, it tells me it will take care of me, that I am the reason I am like this. Sometimes I sit and think of reasons why I'm like this. Why I'm so messed up, so crazy, so sad, nervous, scared. I tell myself that it is just something that happens. Sometimes I believe it is because I am afraid to die, but am I really? I am afraid to live. I'm afraid to burden people, to make my mother and father believe everything is their fault, but in reality it is mine. The black slugs slithers into my thoughts, telling me lies that I believe. I am worthless. I don't deserve friends because no one likes me. I'm impossible to love. I am broken. I'm an attention seeker. Cry Baby. Brat. Another casualty of myself. I'm like this because I let myself get this way. I am a fraud. I will never amount to anything. Fat. Ugly. Dumb. I could go on and on, but I am tired. Like always.