By Alan D.D.
Once upon a time, there was a boy whose mind was eating him alive. A guy whose feelings were draining him and feeding upon him night by night. That boy did the best he could to deal with his condition. He had good days, bad days and days taken directly from hell, but at least he could always find a way to breathe a little.
One day, one sweet day, the sun was shining, the sky was clear, and the now almost adult guy found his own set of fangs, sharper than knives. He bit back every single time that little piece of manure wanted to bother him as it used to years ago.
Done being the victim
To be blunt, I’m sick of thinking depression defines my life, my feelings, my thoughts and actions and even the way I see the world. I’m tired of reading so many times the same old story where depression is seen a weakening thing. Yes, it drains you. It leaves you almost lifeless on the cold ground, and it doesn’t matter how much you try, the next day could be the same. But I realised I’m tired of being trapped in there.
I am sick of feeling broken, as if I had an empty chest, an incomplete self. I’m sick of feeling hurt, low, buried six feet under my own demons where no cry for help will ever make it to the outside world. I have been finding my way to change that during these last few years. I’m done being the victim, as plain as that.
Finding your own way is never easy. We are all very aware of that I suppose. But one day I thought that I couldn’t keep playing fair. Depression never did, anyway. Since that day, I started playing dirty. I started lying and using my depression the way I wanted to. This sickness has done the same with me for years, so it was time for the tables to turn.
Drinking every drop
Studies have discovered that depression helps you be more creative, have more ideas and create more art than in your average mood. I ignore the details, but I do know it’s the truth. That’s the way I’ve been using my depression for a couple of years until now. It’s a tool for my mind to create. To imagine and picture my feelings in any way I feel comfortable with.
As long as I drink every drop of its blood, just like Dracula did in his own case, as long as I am now the leech, the blood-sucker and that little demon remains as the victim, there’s nothing to worry about, but the total opposite. There are not enough monsters. I celebrate this plot twist, writing, singing, drawing, colouring and even playing with Photoshop when my heart starts to ache. There’s no shame, not any more.
Not enough monsters
We know depression takes a long while to get rid of. But I cannot think of a better way to deal with it than being the one in control, forcing it to work for you and repay every tear and nightmare it made you go through. For it’s a monster, a monster and a half. But it’s far better to know that in the end everything will be alright. Because there are not enough monsters in the world.
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