Depression reverberates around the room, and I wonder if it is real, or just an echo of last night’s suffering.
The depression returns and repeats, like the pressing down of a single key on a piano. Again. And again. And again. For so long that I forget there are other notes to play. I am crushed under its weight, so that, when it lifts, I cannot stand back up; I assume the weight is still there. And, in a way, it is.
This has happened so many times—more than I can count. The ups are nothing compared to the down, down, downs. And it feels so familiar, so comfortable, that I start sinking in…
As the negative thoughts begin to crowd out my rational mind, I wonder: Do I even want to feel better?
I wonder if I am somehow allowing this to happen. What if I try to do something different? But, like all the other times before, I can’t; there is the weight, pressing me down.
The sadness feels like a flashback, a reiteration of the depression of last night, last month, last year. A decade ago. As if each bout of depression piles on top of the last one, making it bigger and bigger and bigger. I wonder if this is true.
But I also have to wonder: if it is true, and I make it through the night, does that mean I am getting stronger with each repetition? If I can survive just one more time, will I then be able to face and climb the next inevitable mountain placed in front of me?
The mountains keep coming. And I climb them.
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