The scenario has grown all too familiar. I start to feel strange, almost out-of-body. I don't want to write, do I even like to write? I question. I don't want to go to class, why did I choose them this semester? I always chose the wrong ones, I blamed myself. I don't want to get out of bed. Why would I? The room is cold, my blankets are warm, and right now I'm wrapped tight like a cocoon, and as far as I'm concerned no negativity will bleed through this blanket. That may be because it's already all inside my head.
"The beast is back," I warn myself. My dukes are up, and once again I'm ready to fight. I've had my fists up on three separate occasions now, this routine has become a part of me.
As much as I try to fight it, and as much as I am confident that at certain times I can "beat the beast," I am also confident this is a darkness I will be plagued with my entire life. They try to tell you that your depression is not you, and you are not your depression, but they're wrong. Depression is me, and I am my depression. I have accepted that. I cannot recall of a time where I was not fighting the beast, so I'm convinced he's always lived inside of me.
My first bout of depression was when I was eight years old. The beast consumed me for two weeks, before I could shake my wrists from his blood clotting grip. Eleven years later, onto my most recent bout, lasted nine months, and was no doubt the scariest time of my entire life. I was convinced that I had become the beast. I wanted my life back. I wanted my mind back. I wanted the sound of my laugh back. I wanted the light back.
This is part of the reason I am so proud to have the waves tattooed on me. It serves as a constant reminder that the waves will come, and they will go, but they will be ever-present. A threat lurking in the shadows, waiting to make a return. Will this be the time they finally take me out? Send me tumbling back to shore, with no chance of coming up for air? Maybe, but I'll be ready to put up the fight of my life upon every single return. And that's why I can't dwell on the beast. I love the fight. It presents a challenge on my strength, and I have the opportunity to prove myself to the bastard every single time.
I've said it before, and I will say it again without shame, I owe my life to my best friends for having incredible levels of patience with me as I found myself again. My mom is an angel. No matter how many times I start to fall, she is always there with open arms, ready and willing to push me back up. She ensures I never sink or hit the ground, and I am (sometimes) thankful for that.
"I guess life is a bit like the roulette wheel- we all take our chances and it seems like most everyone lands on a bad place sooner or later."
So I got dealt a shitty hand. I can't dwell on that, because I can't trade them in, nor would I want to. This is my life, and I can't take it for granted, because I had to fight like hell for it.
For now, welcome back beast, this time you're not allowed to over-stay your welcome.