depression - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
I felt dead inside. My tongue felt dry. My throat felt as if someone thrust a handful of itching powder inside. My eyes were scruffy. I looked down at the food plate, leaning back. I've been sitting in this car for twelve hours straight. I wasn't in the mood to eat.
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.
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.
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.
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 remembered the storm
How there was a swirl of emotions
How she was called everything in the book of wrong
How she was to scared to look at herself in the mirror because she didn't want to see if those words were true
She didn't want to prove them right
That she doesn't belong here.
Who would want to feel like that?
Who would want to think like that?
But that's all she knew
So that's what she became
The person who everyone wanted to be around
The person who thought they were beautiful
But...she didn't. She still didn't think she was worth it Because every time she saw her reflection,
she didn't know who was staring back.
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.
Um… it’s just that, I used to be happy. Um, yeah, past tense. Sucks, I know. But, they did tell me that I wouldn’t be soon or I’d forget the feeling or whatever, so what I did was I wrote it down. I said it felt like, like light, sunshine. I didn’t really write anything more; I guess I couldn’t really be bothered because it seemed scary, but mostly it seemed ridiculous that this would happen. So, so now I just have this paper, this stupid scrap of paper that just says sunshine on it. And what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Feel happy? I –I don’t. It… it just sucks.
Depression is the unseen, unheard, silent killer. It's the pain that's too much to cope with, too hard to deal with and so misunderstood. You can't escape it no matter how hard you try, because it follows you around like a black shadow that's on the inside, eating you.
Katy stood there, sunken eyes staring back at her. The makeup was gone from her face, her hair was frizzed, and she was clad in years-old pajamas, showing off her chubby midriff and too-tight sleeves. She fell forward, catching herself on the porcelain sink and bowed her head, shoulders shaking. A sense of deja vu swept over her, as the ghosts of her past paraded around her and within her, a sneaky reminder of all the nights she had spent here, struggling to keep breathing when her entire body seemed to sag with exhaustion and numbed agony.
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.
Depression means that without sound, the mind plummets downward into less and less light, and darkness beyond measure. Is there a bottom to the mind's pain? Is there any branch of hope, or something to catch or hold onto? Is there some rescuing idea that can come into the thoughts of the victim? How much darkness can one take without any light? It seems that hope cannot come from within us, so it has to enter from outside. If one can turn his thoughts toward the Almighty One, even for a flashing moment, then that will be a moment of relief. Why? Because a small light will appear in the dark thoughts, and this thought allows us to see the greatness of Him who loves us. The Light morphs into more rays of hope. Even a small ray of hope will revel His power, when we have none. In our downward plunge, a strong hand reaches, catches us, and halts our drowning in bottomless gloom. He pulls us up and we breathe in His Light. It is not total relief yet, but it is a start.
'I think we can all agree that society is one of the worst things about humanity. It's funny, 'cause society goes on and on about possessions not meaning anything, say that they don't count towards happiness. It ridicules people who say they need money to be happy, tells them they don't need stuff like that to be okay.
Then they turn around and have a go at people like me, people who have 'everything' but aren't happy, and they ridicule us 'cause of it. They don't realise the truth of what they said before. Possessions can't make people happy, people make people happy, friends and family and loved ones. Don't ridicule us 'cause we 'have everything' or we'll go and do something stupid, like I did. Try and help us out, try to understand, and if you can't, go and worry about your own problems.'
I stood on the brink of something I couldn't describe. The weight of everything seemed to press down on my shoulders and I struggled to take even a single step forward. It was too much. All of it. And somehow, I kept moving. But every step cost me. The darkness grew darker; the pain grew sharper; all of it seemed to only grow in strength and I began to wonder if things could ever get better.
But I never said a word. Sometimes I wonder if that smile- the horribly fake smile- is ever seen through. If someone ever notices that sad, broken look in my eyes that I see in the mirror. If they see beauty where I see ugliness. And then I laugh, a bitter, sarcastic laugh, at myself. Nobody cares. No one notices. They never seem to, do they?
I've fought for years. I just march on..
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.
The sick man was like a dog that is ill but which growls from a deep corner, and will bite if you put your hand in. He was in a state of black depression.
Dustbowl of the soul, melting into soundless oblivion, falling, bottomless pit, nothing to grab onto, tumbling, swirling blackness, despair, gloom welling up from below, engulfed in nothingness, sinking, clawing at the walls of the pit, dragged down, swamped with negative emotion, as steady and merciless as sinking sand, smothered, helplessness, curl up, tears as silent as the grave roll in steady procession, firm grip of desolation, a void, as if the soul was being trampled on by feet in heavy boots, even sunshine seems cold.
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.
The 'last' time I saw her, it was different. Her eyes had sunken into dark hollows of no soul, her smile was broken in two and the way her eyes glanced, it was different. My words may be symmetrical, but the hologram of her beauty is sadness itself. We've all been fooled, by the sweet scent of her laughs, the way her wrinkles fold together like paper. Now its different, even different wouldn't describe how everything about her has changed, her sadness is beautiful but no one can help her. This beauty mashed together with gentle sadness is art in ourselves, light being reflected on the pieces of glass on her skin is showing the colours of her love. Blue.
There's nothing tragically beautiful about depression. It's not sad songs and poetry, shy glances or drowning in the bath. It's not ghostly white skin tainted by charcoal circles under sad eyes and large purple bruises stretching viciously up your arms. It isn't lonely walks, vacant coffee shops or smoking dusty cigarettes.
Depression is unwashed clothes and flaking skin. It's over eating and the inability to even get out of bed. It's giving up on yourself and not taking pride in your appearance anymore. It's empty inboxes, bursts of anger and late night tears. It's a feeling of disgust within yourself that makes you want to tear off your own skin just so you can feel clean. It's uncertainty and confusion. It's losing weight, long showers and greasy hair. It's constantly wishing you could be somewhere or someone else. It's losing the will to even live.
Depression is not tragically beautiful, it's just tragic.
Sometimes I feel like there is something eating me up from the inside, as if my conscience is telling me I'm not good enough. Every day I plaster my face with make up, wear loose clothes and fake a smile; but some days I can't take it any more. I miss dinner one day ... then again and again...
"I can help you." Jase said, reaching a hand out towards the broken girl.
"Shut up!" Melody cried, swatting his outstretched limb. "No one helps. They only make it worse. Depression isn't something you can put a band aid over and say it'll be okay. Because, news flash! It won't!" The oil haired woman started to pace back and forth in the middle of the floor. "Depression drags you into this pit and never lets you go. No matter how hard or how long someone's rope is they throw to get you out, something always cuts the cord so you plummet back down to the ground. You get hurt with each attempt to get out, more and more dirt covering you as you try! Why can't you see that!" She stopped pacing and shockingly, there wasn't a slope in the floor she had been stomping over. "There is no band aid large enough or absorbent enough to cover it." Her voice took on a more gentle tone. "And I just want to let it all go... I don't want to be stuck in that pit anymore, I want to be in the field of flowers right out side the hole... I want to be free." She fell to her knees, a few tears falling from her hazel eyes. "I want to be happy, but can't find it. It's like I'm playing hide and seek with someone all the way across the world and winning will let me be free. It'll never happen..."
"I want to help." He said again, just as confident as before.
"Were you not listening? Help doesn't wo-" She was silenced by the larger man pulling her into a hug, it gentle yet firm.
"I want to help and will climb down into that pit myself to get you out if needed. I want you to smile again and will not take no as an answer. Now, either I sleep on your couch to make sure everything is okay, or you come over to my place." She was stunned. No one was ever this forceful about the topic; when ever she said no they just brushed it to the side. "You're too important to lose, no one should leave you alone again."
"Mind-reader..." She grumbled as he laughed and laid back on her couch.
"See you in the morning."
In life, there are no chapters. You have no book to read, no story that shows much of a purpose. You have the ups and downs of life, yes, but when was there ever a book to read about you? There is no book dedicated to you. There is no book about your life story. If someone wants to know about it, they should stick by your side and ride along with you. Jennifer taught me this.
Jennifer is dead; where is her book? Where is that happy ending everyone was looking forward to? If her life started with, "In a land far, far away grew a beautiful baby girl," where was her happily ever after? It wasn't there. It was never to be there either. So why in the hell would there be a book for our lives when they don't end the right way, or the way they're suppose to?
It’s been awhile since I last cried. I honestly don’t think I’m capable of it anymore. It isn’t that I don’t want to, some days I want nothing more than to curl up into a ball and have the tears wash away the heaviness in my chest. I just can’t. They refuse to form, to take shape and make their way silently down my face.
And so the days went on. Flying by without any recognition from their inhabitants. The grey skies and low clouds clung to my body and soul as if infectious, as I lay on my bed, day by day staring out that small window. It was the only light in my room, illuminating the walls in its bleakness, spilling over my face. I walked around my room listening to depressive classical piano through my speakers, barefooted, covered only in an oversized sweater that my father gave me before he died, my hair in a messy bun, holding a cup of coffee. Even then all I tasted was ash. Could this be what it all meant? Why Buddhists want to kill themselves? To escape this? Philosophy intrigues me. But at the end of it all, do I really want to escape this? This loop of moody gloom and greyness? I've come to appreciate my simple life. That window has become my best friend, I don't want to leave it. I can't remember the last time I looked at my phone. A few times I've sat on my piano stool, naked, bathed in moonlight and played what my heart felt. Now, as the days draw to an end, I can feel it. It's like the world knows, and my body knows. I know it's my time. I will fade into nothingness, captivated by the moon and its silver fade.
I guess I was wrong
Makes me wonder if I was ever right
I want to turn my life into a song
Instead of this never ending fight
Restless like the wind
Sad like the waves of the sea
Thoughts bounce in my mind
Trying to control me
Walking the halls plastered with work of people I don’t know,
My friend is laughing,
I don’t know why,
All I can think is what I am doing,
I should be somewhere else,
Soaking up the sun with the people I belong with.
I get to class and sit down in the uncomfortable plastic chair,
I turn to speak to them but then I realise,
I left them behind,
I left all of them behind,
I try to picture what they are doing now,
Probably not even missing me though I miss them.
My name sticks out like a sore thumb here,
Back then it didn’t matter,
It wasn’t important like it is now,
I instantly feel judged yet the teachers are oblivious in fact,
They even make it stand out even more,
How am I supposed to fit in now…? I can’t.
I think about telling someone,
But some sort of force propels me away from the door when I pass,
Instead I put on my mask, my facade,
No-one should have to know the way I feel,
It was my choice,
Only now do I realise it was the wrong one.
And my parents my poor, poor parents,
They think they have a strong daughter,
Someone who they can rely on for doing the best for the family,
I can’t bring myself to tell them,
That I would rather have a helmet sewn onto my jumper,
I made the wrong choice.
I would be wandering the halls of a knight,
Arm in arm with the people that I have known for years,
If I had just said the different name,
Hidden from prying eyes,
Moving forward with my other schools,
With people I trust with my secrets…with my entire life.
Instead fake it,
Because if I uttered one word to my ‘friends’ they would tell,
Even if I said not too,
Then the adults will get involved and my cover will be blown,
My parents would know and would try to deny its importance,
That I should tell them the truth.
That I don’t belong in this school
I know everything about my darkness, yet I know nothing about why it haunts me, nothing about why it sometimes settles for days and other times appears for a fleeting hour. There is only one way I can explain it. You know when something bad has happened, and the next day when you wake up in the morning, for those first 3 seconds your mind is deliciously blank, you remember nothing and nobody? Then it hits, your heart drops, your stomach sinks and you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping it was all a bad dream? When the darkness comes, that is what I feel like, every moment of everyday, until it passes. My body feels hollow and full of sadness all at once, I can't remember ever being happy. I don't know what I'm sad about, but it's bone crushing sadness, the kind that makes you clench every muscle in your body to try and squeeze it out. The kind of sadness that makes you unable to think about the future. The kind of sadness that makes you feel like you're alone, even when you're surrounded by friends or family. It's the kind of sadness they send you to a doctor for, as if a walking PhD will be able to solve everything by prescribing the right pills to lull you into the only state worse than depression -- unfeeling.
Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like. To still love the sun and the rain, and be able to dance with the breeze. It's still now; I haven't seen it in a while. Suddenly, the time became measureless, and it dissolved into itself, as shapeless as the rain. I'm tired of waiting for the breeze to come and disperse the fog that brings the rain. I'm tired. The rain seems to be a constant. I hate this, that I find no more joy in the sun and the rain, that dancing through the trees with the breeze no longer compels me. Things are changing; the world no longer moves as it once did, the trees no longer whisper their secrets to me, I no longer see the fairies in the blades of grass. Maybe I'm growing up. Thoughts of the rain cloud my delicate head, invade my fragile thoughts - they become me. I can only think of the rain, because the rain is inviting, and the cold makes my breathe catch in my chest and I realize I am alive - I am breathing which means my heart must be beating, which means I must be feeling but I am not feeling - why am I not feeling? I am not living. This is not a life, a life with the rain.
And all the mistakes
Will drain away.
Like the rain
It will go away
And come back down again
Haunting and taunting
Of what I've done
Oh suffering girl deep is the pain you try to bear
While people come and go without a care
One minute here, the next gone
Oh your heart breaks from this same old song
Every night, staring at the moon’s silver glow
All alone so no one will know
You’re drowning in your own self-hate
Forever stuck in this checkmate
To live or to die
No one hears you as you cry
Oh suffering girl the turmoil in your soul
It sucks you in, this sinkhole
To live or to die
To cut or to lie
The blade biting your wrists
The blood swirling in the water’s twists
Oh suffering girl don’t look in the mirror
For it only shows your face clearer
It shows the red mess of skin
It shows only the images it spins
It doesn’t show your heart within
The places you’ve been
Oh suffering girl
In the day I am fine
A perfect little ray of sunshine
But when the moon rises, my mind begins to taunt me
Voices and cries inside my head, they haunt me
Every scream, every whisper
Every smooth talker, every lisper
They plunge me into darkness
Taking advantage of my starkness
They eat my mind
Slowly driving me blind
Blind to the truth, and far away from the light
To my deathbed they take me, without a fight
A little part of me longs to see
It wonders what I’d be if the light shone on me
But that little part of me is so small
So fragile and helpless, just a little call
It needs something strong to awaken its voice
Pull it from the dark and drown out the noise
The Almighty one
The lord, spirit, son
He is the only one who can take the dark
And light a spark
Depression is like the friend visiting from out of town. It doesn't just come and go. It stays for a while, spending time with you or in other words, not leaving you alone until it decides for itself when to leave. It strips you naked, revealing every deep part of you no one else has ever seen. Depression takes away your happiness and keeps it for itself. Depression only wants to be with you and gets too jealous when you're with other people. It tells you that you're not allowed to have other friends except for itself. Until one day when you learn that this 'friend' is controlling you and learn to push it away, it goes back to where it came from. But it still exists and can come knock on your door every once in a while.