Love doesn’t cure depression.
I’ve tried the application of Love as a band aid, as a plaster, a quick solution to paper over the cracks. It’s in the busy-ness of a weekend I have organised to silence the bells inside my own head and heart, under the pretence of a birthday, a reunion, a wedding, an anything at all. I came away from these with the knowledge not that I was loved, but that its exhausting to be happy and smile at people when inside you are screaming and breaking and struggling to breath. That when you look for love, you trust the wrong friends, friends who you have known you for years and seen you at your worst and best. They will be the ones who don’t tell you they have girlfriends, lovers, lives, that hand you their guilt and ask you to carry it for them, who don’t listen to what you are really asking them for. A sigh, a kiss, is really a scream, a notification that ‘I need help’, that a one night stand or a fling is not asking for a relationship but a pillar to hold onto in the middle of the night.
People don’t listen, people don’t see.
Nights are darker when you have your own personal rain-clouds. The stars don’t even light. And when a solid day has passed and all the people you hope to hear from don’t even text a funny joke, you cry and you cry and you cry, and you become thankful that the stars aren’t here to bear witness. Because they hold nights like this forever within them, and you will never see starlight in the same way, never see a field washed in silver without feeling metal between your fingers. Tasting medicine in the back of your throat. Remembering lessons hard learned – how to do it better, that if you swallow too much too quickly you will vomit it all out and sob, sob, sob, realising you failed even at this.
Depression is when the easiest way to stop the cycle is to fall asleep and disappear. To buy a ticket on a train that races behind the dawn, and ask for it to stop only when it reaches a city where the lights never come on. When you check the weather and think you could go outside and fall asleep and you wouldn’t even realise you never woke up. How easy it would be, how calm, how quiet. When you have to scrabble in the dirt for reasons not too, and it can be something simple that stops that forward rush. I cannot choose the right scarf, the right shoes, which beach to lie upon. And here I am again, sat behind my closed door and crying. I should be thankful. I never am.
Love is not a reason not to give into the pull in my stomach that urges me on to the cliff-top. Love is what put me here. The wrong man, wrong job, wrong city, wrong medicine, wrong medication, wrong genetic make-up, wrong hormone levels. Love only works when it is a two way thing. I have loved, so many people, so many things that never felt the same, never warmed to my particular traits. I have loved friends who walked away one day with no explanation. Friends who never rang me first. Friends who only ever came to me when I could offer them something they needed. Friends who weren’t friends. Family who never wanted me and didn’t try to hide it. Walking into a house and having nowhere to sleep at Christmas, being the one forever being made to sleep in a temporary bed in a temporary space – neon signs that said I didn’t belong here.
I sit here now and I know later, in a day, a week, an hour, I will try again to make this all stop in a most permanent fashion. God I hope it works.
I know no-one I know realises this blog exists, and so this is safe to post. If it is a goodbye or a cry for help, I don’t really know. It is something of the two.