My depression follows me around.
Most of the time, it prefers a seat on my shoulder. "All the better to talk to you with," it would say.
I hate that little fucker, to be honest. Sometimes it goes away, for a little while, shooed away by a good feeling.
But it always comes back stronger. I can see it, sometimes, wrestling with my happiness on a rug, feathers flying into the air, sadness tearing into the wing, a strange twisting feeling in my gut, like something in there's rolling around.
Then, before I know it, the ghost is perched back on my shoulder, whispering little things, terrible things, right into my ear.
"Cassandra, you fucking hoe, you forgot to water your plants again. Useless."
"Why are you still even talking? She hates you by now. You realize that, right? Oh, wait. Maybe if you had, you wouldn't be wasting her fucking time."
"You know that you're lying when you say that you were too tired to do the work. You were just too lazy, you filthy bitch. You'll never go anywhere, you know that?"
He taunts me every second of every minute of every day. Sometimes, I'll forget he's there, but he'll see that I'm a bit insecure about something and come rushing in again.
They can see him. I know they can. But they ignore me, like they'll catch it if they look too close. Tell me that it's normal to feel sad sometimes. Tell me the ghost will go away someday.
He'll point to the knife, the bottle of pills, the bottom of the lake. "Imagine," he says, his voice soft and smug, "that you could leave this world behind forever. You wouldn't be a burden to anyone anymore."
He adjusted his position on my shoulder and turned my head towards the bathroom, towards the medicine cabinet. "A bottle is all it takes," he whispered, and abruptly vanished in a puff of smoke.
I laid my head in my hands and cried. At everything. At the ghost, at the world, at myself.
That night I emptied all of the bottles into the trash and called my mom to tell her what the ghost was saying. She listened as I vented to her.
She told me she loved me, and that she would be torn apart if I died. She explained that my friends, my family, even my coworkers would be affected, that my death would be just as painful for all of them as for me.
The ghost came back later, of course, a bit miffed that I was still alive. But every time it told me that the world would be better if I died, I laughed.
"Kill me yourself," I'd say, and I'd shoo it away to come bug me at a later date.
It's still not easy, and I still struggle with the ghost. But when everything feels dark, I remember those who love me, those who I've touched in my life, those who would be crushed if I died, and I keep on living.
A quick note from the author <3
This account is entirely fictional. Any names or occurrences contained within, I have not personally experienced, but this idea came to me a while ago and just... made sense.
I suffer from depression and anxiety, and I can tell you that even the littlest things make a difference. From personal experience, I can tell you that even just saying "I love your clothes" to a friend can brighten up their day so much.
And please, PLEASE, if you're ever considering suicide, don't give in. You are wanted in this world, and even if it doesn't seem like it, you are loved. If you need someone to talk to you, I'm always open. :)
Thank you for reading my story, and I hope this has helped some of you. Always remember to be kind because you won't know what could hurt someone, and remember to regularly remind those you love that they matter to you. Peace. ~ the horror frying pan