A poem: depression and destruction.

The purpose of the following passage is to document the episodes of my life that no-one else really sees. It is to demonstrate that whilst I understand leaving this earth would be selfish, sometimes it really feels like the only way. 

I would like to emphasise that these are the worst times, and not a representation of my daily life. Having said that, these experiences are real and, I hope, portray through words why depression has the capacity to kill.

From depression to destruction

Depression always exists within, 
Sometimes I am stronger than it,
Sometimes it is stronger than I. 

I feel a sense of dread.
I recognise this feeling, and I know there’s a chance things could go wrong.
I know there’s a chance I could want to stop living again. 
I know this feeling.
I know it because I lack the energy to talk,
I wake up three times in the night,
Each morning accompanied by emergence from a nightmare,
My body; sweating yet freezing,
This nightmare has been here before.

I consciously beg myself not to let it happen again,
Please don’t feel that bad, please not again,
But I know it’s going to happen anyway,
I can feel it and the feeling is too strong.
I am being drained, 
Everything I value is being sucked out of me with a syringe,
Once the draining ends, 
I am once again at rock bottom.

Staring at myself in the mirror,
My face morphing into a different person,
I am under that spell again.
Red and blotchy, pulling at my hair,
Clenching my fists and screaming.
Except the screaming makes no sound,
My voice has been stolen,

And I know that nothing can make it better.
Everything is dark and I am frantic,
I feel like I am bursting at the brim,
The tension and the pain engulfs me.

I need to get out of myself,
I need to get out because it hurts to be me. 
I cry as though I am a child again,
Slamming my fists onto the ground,
Writhing with frustration, hatred and angst.
I just want the pain to go.

But I am trapped,
Trapped inside my own body,
and trapped inside my house. 
I can’t leave,
I don’t want to be seen, 
I don’t want to be embarrassed for wanting to die.

So I stay in my room,
Wracking my brain for something to help,
Not one thing to justify my existence.

I want to die, 
But I am scared.
I am scared it will hurt;
I don’t want to hurt anymore than I already do,
and I am selfish.
Selfish for leaving those I love behind,
I understand.
But you don’t,
You don’t understand that I need to get out.

I need to end the torture that resides in my own mind.
So what keeps me here?
Hope, maybe.

The intrinsic feeling of hope that makes itself known,
yet offers no explanation.
A small pin-prick in the hopelessness,
A flicker through the mind,

But something that says “not today”.