by Rie

Perhaps it’s always been evident that I may suffer depression. The clinical kind. The kind which – quite honestly – sounds terrifying.

Calling it something seems to give it more power. What’s that emptiness I wake up with? What’s that fog in my head? What is this inability to cope with the extremes of emotions?


And I don’t like the idea of it.

It’s not so much the stigma of an illness that doesn’t line up with the physical (although I’ve wished plenty of times that it manifested in more visible ways) nor is it the medication (although I’ve heard their side effects are horrible). It’s the fact that I may have it.

I may not have it.

The edges are fuzzy enough that I feel as if I am Schrodinger’s cat. Until you diagnose me with depression, you will never know if I’m depressed. If you try to, I will be depressed.

Maybe this is all some grand excuse to explain why I’m a sputtering piece of machinery – blowing soot, creaking and clanking against its own gears.

I think I need more time to be alone. Figure this out before that machine blows up in the faces of the people I love. Again.

(I’m sorry.)