Depression

The horror of depression is that you do always remember how terrible it feels, even when it is over. And the other horror for me (and one which may be at the root of this current self-destruction) is that I feel I have a life sentence, where this hell will return again, never sought but able to strike at a moment's notice, sneaking out of nowhere and blanketing me. That is the true horror. It is hell because, while I am in it, past experiences of recovery mean nothing. There is no hope in this pit. Absence of hope is a fearful thing. The recollection of its isolation never truly goes away, even in the good times. It is like a stalking shadow.

Those of you who are taking me with you, praying for me, are truly holding me in the light, shining a torch into my pit. Briefly, I can sense that there is light out there somewhere. It lights up my cave and I am beginning to see that someone has placed a quilt over there for me to huddle into, a cushion in that corner to sink onto, a warm drink to ease the internal chills. Someone has placed a candle here. Its light flickers, and will not last for ever, and cannot light up the darkest recesses, but it provides some relief from the gloom. Someone else has sent a picture of me as they see me, not as I see myself. I can hardly bear to look at it, but it is there. Others have placed notes around with kind words, letters to remind me that there is a world outside this cave. Maybe one day I will discover that one of the terrifying tunnels leading away from this cave is safe to travel and leads to a place of security.

I have a picture of a cave that a friend has given me. I don't know who the artist is, but it reminds me of my cave. I wish I were an artist so I could draw my cave for you.