Flakes of rust floating away,
decay of years gone by; still haunts the present
– the phantom that will not leave me alone.
Without the blackness holding on, without its enlightening rush, it seems quiet, but not calm. This is not restful rest, this pins-and-needles, hyperawareness, over-thought feeling. This is not letting go, this is getting through and it’s exhausting. Sleep, rest should quell the fatigue, but I find myself more tired in waking up. Could I just turn off the day for a day? Could I ignore everything and just lay there? Would I be serving evil in doing so?
There were times in my last year of high school that I’m sure depression set in, days when I didn’t want to leave my room or greet the world with even a “fuck you.” Usually it was because of Dad’s drinking, or more specifically, Mom’s unwillingness to approach the subject as a family and my subsequent feelings of defeat and uselessness (therein lies the source of yesterday’s flinching: in teenage years fighting Dad’s alcoholism; in thinking I had an ally in my mother, only to realize she was playing both sides). I would go days with only mumbling as communication, visible in the world and invisible at the same time.
It seems like such a sure precipice, a familiar hiding spot for the blackness – depression. I see you hiding there, phantom…