HOW DO YOU EXPLAIN DEPRESSION?

For the past fourty-five minutes you’ve been trying to explain to Jerome the difference between feeling blue and being depressed.  He keeps repeating that depression is demonic, from one of the numerous evil kingdoms his mother was always praying against. And you keep rubbing your ears, to keep your itchy hands away from his face.

But really, how do you explain it?

Going through what you want to paint over and over again in your head then do the unplanned when you finally meet the canvass, you paint it all black. Black the power of what you feeling right now, the darkest part of your nights, the sum total of every negative thing you always feel. Your paintings reflect the brood of demons that drain every drop of happiness, every fucking constraint.

And on days you are not inspired to paint, you take it out on your girlfriend. You hurl expletives and harsh words at her, her tears and subsequent avoidance offers you a sense of fulfillment. And then you party with loneliness, and her cousin, insomnia. And at 3.am, when your madness is at its peak, you mourn the berth beside you that increases with each breath.

She had once asked you, “how do you gather energy to face the world by hurting people who love you?”

You didn’t answer that, there was no answer to that. You can’t even blame your depression; the fucking thing does not retain one shape for long. This minute it is a restless bastard making faces at your calm, the next minute it is a black hole sucking you in.

Sometimes you feel extremely angry, angry at God, at absent fathers, and the teacher that keeps writing “disturbed, always angry, dysfunctional” on your report card. You feel like hitting her the way you hit those bags in the gym. Damn fool!

And your mother doesn’t understand you either, the only thing she understands is tears. She believes crying is some form of release, but you would rather die a thousand times than allow her see you in tears. They all think something is wrong with you, even your sister believes you are on drugs.

But you know you are alright, you just like to ‘paint your heart out’, and break your knuckles an awfully lot.

You have to leave Jerome, and his stupidity. You need to get away from these noisy humans, metal always offers some sort of comfort.

Maybe you are just too strong; who knew darkness could be so powerful?

Maybe…

Maybe…

Argghh!