depression - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
"This depression," said Wanda, "it is as if there is a force pressing down on me. So, this music that goes with that flow, that surrenders to the pressure, that's just assisting the depression, not me. I need the artists who struggle against depression and discover ways to win, how to step out from under this invisible anvil and rediscover the forces that uplift the soul."
"Indoor cycling plus Alex K's 90's Megamix is my depression drug of choice, a regular dose and I'm as right as rain," said Fred.
We only ever see blue while the sun shines; so while it's there, the blue, take heart, for in these moments you are far closer to being healed than those who take comfort in the coldness of a void.
It's that day of drowning, here again, the cold wash only I can feel. I don't want to get up. I don't want to move at all. And in that moment it takes all the strength I have to make a good choice, to reach for an oxygen tank and take a breath - that's my good mood music playlist. It gives me the thoughts I need, that I am someone worthy of love and joy. The first tracks aren't easy. They show the tears in my soul, but without that how would the soul stay alive? So I let them call to me and bring the salty rivers. This is how I stay alive. This is how the universe reaches me and tells me good things are coming.
Depression has a floor, a rock bottom, and finding it is a blessing. When you hit it, when it feels as if you should stay down, you find a reason to get up. Perhaps it's your kid you get up for, maybe it's your pet dog, maybe it's just for the sake of finding out what happens tomorrow... but you get up. Then, my friend, it's rinse repeat. At the time it feels as if you have no strength, yet after days uncounted of all this, you are truly stronger than those who still wear the mask. You become the hope. You become a chance to give them heaven even as you walk through a personal hell. Yet since we are both here, in this flame pit others are oblivious to, perhaps we can become a heaven for each other. The road to hell is comfort and self-confidence - the road to heaven is lashings of pain. Maybe we'll be the ones who get there first. Maybe we'll be the ones with a little piece of true happiness, the ones with a love that can light up the world. Finding a love such as this isn't the reason I agreed to go to hell, I did it because I'm a weirdo freak who wanted to save creation, humanity too, but I asked for love if it was possible. So walk these fiery coals with pride. You're the only one who dared show up to join me. I love you for it. I always will. Of that you can be sure.
I've stopped asking what "optimal" is; in this depression I'm not seeking the happier version of me. I can't recall the last time I reached out for that child-self I once was, the kid who loved sunshine and rain all the same. I started to see darkness around the lights instead of the other way around, and soon there were no more colours in my world. They say there is a rope ladder out of depression, one you can use to climb out of it, the problem is that I just can't find the will to reach out for the first rung, let alone try.
I have always loved the flowers and the birds, loved the sunlight and the clouds that drift by. I have always loved the way the leaves move in a breeze and that soft whispering sound they make, like nature loves to chatter too. Yet the tiredness that begun a while ago remains like a veil over my skin, grey and cold. And as I watch the petals and the twigs that sway outside the window, there is only a creeping sorrow where there should be joy. It sits like November rain on my skin, enough to chill what was once warm inside. At any other time I would have called a friend, asked for the warmth I needed to ward it off, just a little is enough. No longer. Now I just let it come, drop by drop and I feel like it is an ocean falling upon me instead of rain - that the grief of years I carefully suspended has all condensed right above my head into a cloud large enough to block the sun. They say it can't rain forever, that there will come a time when it must cease, that the last drop will have fallen. Thing is, I just don't care. I will still be true to myself, still help others, but I plan to just stay here in the cold, comfortably numb.
Sunlight and aerobic exercise boost your serotonin, so go ride your bike, because that's what you need to feel happy, to keep you safe from depression. Go be in nature, watch how the light plays on the trees and the birds swoop. While you're at it, you'll be making new neurones in your brain... play, laugh, be silly... it's what human's need to be healthy.
"I'm sorry this happened to you, I am. This depression is the result of being bullied for so long into pointless work, of never being able to express your love for others as humans are born to do. Our work must be our passion, our joy, our gift of the self, for only then is it health bringing and sustainable. That's why the new treatment option isn't drugs, it's a chance to reestablish positive health the natural way... and it's just an option, the drugs are still available...
We have a lot of volunteer programs, and they really need you. We have kids who need love, music programs, park gardening, hospital visiting, pet sanctuaries, school helpers, befriending the lonely and the elderly... taking folks out for a walk or a bike ride helps more than you can imagine, more than any bottle of pills. With this help we can bring so much happiness, prevent others from becoming depressed... so, what d'ya say? Will you help?
She looks at me like the fire in her eyes has been dowsed with ice water, if anything it makes the blue more pale. I'm not used to it, it unnerves me. I want her to give freely like she always does but she won't. It's like she just crawled right back inside some invisible shell and no matter how hard I try she's unreachable. She moves her eyes more slowly, like they're heavy, an effort to move. I want to crack my usual jokes but I know she won't laugh. I'm standing right next to her but she might as well be on the moon.
The blizzard removes the illusion of my eyes. With sight I am not alone, I am one of many in the world and the world is full of interesting things to see, to touch to feel, to keep my mind anchored in time and space. But as the white flakes whirl around me in an angry vortex I am as alone as I would be in the bleakness of space and cold, so cold. I reach out with gloved hand to guide my way but it is swallowed before it has gone even a few inches. To save my eyes from the blinding white I must narrow them until they are almost shut, and all the while the wind rages without end, only reducing its ferocity long enough to gather the strength for another attack. All my heart can do is beat warm blood around my veins in a hope that the storm will end, all my mind can do is plan the most logical path to warmth, safety and to something more tangible than light and snow.
For fifty years I was corporate climber, eating up-market ready meals with sitcoms, living vicariously through movie stars instead of leaving my condo. I laughed at my sister and her “greenies” with their alternative lifestyle, baking their own bread and dancing improvised music in town halls and forests alike. I had the designer outfits and the most perfect shoes ever made. I had the granite counters. I had teeth whiter than fresh paper. I could find lovers on the internet as easily as ordering a pizza. Then I retired.
It was fine at first, I spent more time on the internet, ate more pizza. My soft middle became softer and then the depression began. I wanted to go back to work, I had status there, I was someone. Now what was I? Some over the hill woman desperately buying hair dye and expensive wrinkle reduction creams? I'd lived the independent life, I'd had the best of everything. I wasn't annoyed by kids or weighed down by a husband. But my “friends” scattered when the depression deepened, it was mental illness after all. They didn't go all at once, but their calls became fewer until they stopped all together. So I did the only thing I could, I called my sister and she came before morning, still smiling like a twelve year old. She said “welcome back” and I cried, I don't know why, but I did.
Crying had always been a healthy release, but for Cara it was a habit now. The blue feeling washed in like an unwanted wave, knocking her sandcastles flat. Then what? Was she supposed to construct them again? Get that bucket and spade out and make it pretty all over again? She sat. No more building, no more castles. She sat and stared out of the window, more tears, no surprise there. She let them fall, not raising a hand to stop them. They splashed down onto the couch in a rain-like pattern and soaked in leaving dark splotches on the coffee coloured fabric. There was more where that came from, what percentage water was she anyway? Less than a cucumber but certainly enough to cry for hours. And what then? Then she'd drink another glass of water and start all over again.
When the tears weren't even half way done Dana was empty. She couldn't have cried even if she wanted to. She hadn't experienced this feeling before. The sadness was still there, but not raw anymore – now it was an empty unhappiness - the kind she didn't think would easily lift. She felt like Simon could surprise her with the cutest kitten on earth and she wouldn't feel a thing. She stared around her as if she was in a pit. Her surroundings were exactly the same, but they gave her no emotion. How could that be? She needed emotion to feel alive, to feel love.