I breathe in, and breathe out.
I am supposed to locate my sadness somewhere in my body. If I picture it, then I can shrink it, move it, dissolve it. I forget what this technique is called as soon as my therapist tells me.
Don’t get me wrong, I do picture it. I picture it as a thick, greasy, gross coating that covers all my skin. It clings to it. It is water resistant. It keeps the sun from coming in.
I can’t shrink it without shrinking myself.
She talks about how you are yourself, even when the sadness is there. Behind it, there is always you, and after it, you will remain. She talks about rain.
Everybody knows the sun is still out there, even on rainy days, even when there’s a storm and the sky is all the same shade of gray. You know it in your brain, but after enough gray days and nights, your heart starts to question even the most logical of truths. Will the sun still be there after the sadness disperses? Are you still the same without the sadness? Is your skin the same after you wash off the bad days?
There is a bittersweet comfort in depression. It doesn’t betray you, or leave you. It pulls you into the blankets, it tells you it’s okay if your friends don’t call you or check up on you, because it would never do that to you. It is an abusive partner, but like most abusive partners, it lets you think it was all your idea. You chose to get that bottle of wine, you chose to cancel on your friends’ birthday plans, you chose to watch TV for 24 hours. You chose this lifestyle, so you must have chosen your sadness. You chose to cover your skin in isolation, in brokenness. It even congratulates you for your bad habits.
But you never chose this life, you never chose the rain. You never chose to sit on an arm-chair, breathing in and out, trying to explain how, in spite of all logic, you cannot dissolve the parts of you that you don’t like, without feeling like you’re dissolving everything else.