I can never tell if my urge to sleep in and do nothing is depression setting up camp in my room. I can never tell if it’s just the exhaustion of life or finally catching up on all that lost time from childhood.

I can never tell if depression is just watching me, in the corner of every room, waiting for me to show my vulnerable belly and give in to its desires.

That sense of impending doom is always there, waiting for me to join its ranks and call myself a believer.

I fight these tendencies, desperately trying to choke out the negative thoughts and beliefs that cloud my vision.

I try to strengthen my resolution. My gratitudes. My affirmations.

Yet still, when I can’t make my body move it feels as though I have been shot though the chest with a spear only depression could weld.

I can’t tell if I’m depressed. Because I don’t trust my own judgement.



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