Depression makes me tired.
It makes it hard to move.
Just to lift my feet from the floor.
Anxiety makes me panic.
Makes me want to jump in alarm.
They duel one another inside me,
creating chaos and dismay.
Freezing burning, tense stillness.
These are my insides many days,
and it makes me mostly useless,
as I can barely take care of me.
I can’t cook or clean, or walk.
I can sit and tremble.
You might not notice it at first.
A leg bouncing up and down.
Fingers playing out a pattern.
Meanwhile on my face,
certain expressions make it tick.
If I go to give you something,
my hand may be quivering.
If you then ask if I’m okay,
I will tell you that I am fine,
but really, I am uncomfortable.
I don’t quite hurt, but feel bad.
Where no position feels right.
Every moment that I stand,
I agonize, waiting to be seated.
Then at last I sit hoping for relief.
Instead finding only discomfort.
But I try not to complain too much.
Committed to those in my care,
yet working with extra weight on me.
An invisible burden, it’s heavy,
and nobody else can see.
Depression is a cruel thing indeed,
nipping at me, constantly.