Living alone 

I like the rain better than the sun. And I think that was part of the problem. I spent most of my life tucked into my depression, curling under it like it was my safety blanket. I told myself it wasn’t depression, that I was just not myself. That it was not my day. I didn’t know how to leave it behind. I didn’t even realize the problem. I told myself that If I was really depressed, I wouldn’t feel anything at all. 5 years later, I sit on my bed In my studio apartment, with a weight on my chest of nothing. A sense of nothing that felt like drowning. Some nights it was hard to catch my breath and holding on felt pointless. And to be honest, waking up felt like a choice. A choice I didn’t know how to make because I didn’t want to make that choice. Some nights the 400 square feet of my apartment felt like a 4 by 4 box, that only got smaller. And unless my front door was open, breathing didn’t come easy. And I’d stand on my balcony with a cigarette in between my lips because it made the air go down a little bit faster, a little bit better. Some nights, I’d sit on my kitchen floor trying to see how many beers I could get down and what number would push me over the top drunk. Those nights I’d listen to Ron pope and bands i can’t remember while I held myself together, trying to close my eyes tight enough that maybe I’d wake up happy. 

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