Residue of Depression

Residue of Depression

A Story by Angel

The residue of depression causes the poet in me to bleed on this paper. Each sentence I write appears to be distorted by a layer of vulnerability. I ounce carried my words with me to be my lantern. Now, It’s hard to create them. My perception of myself eats them up before my real self can make sense of them. I can no longer ignore the weeping failures pulling my pages back, forcing me to rewrite my story. The openness trembling over the pen I hold in my fingers will allow you to share in the experiences of my depression. It’s like being trapped in the sunlight.

The colors of tweed carpet played tricks on my eyes. Broken pieces of chalk lined the chalkboard. White walls sent the message imagination should be left at the door. Coldness took his aim at my bones. The clock hung motionless next to the pamphlet rack, leaving me to wonder if we both ceased to function around the same time. I took a seat and waited for the chair to buckle from the weight of my despair. One by one they piled in, all different versions of me. The hallowed limbs of my mind were creating mazes for my thoughts to run through when the counselor came in. His tan shoes with cream colored strings looked stiff and new. His name, James, was proudly displayed in bold letters on his nametag. My nametag was written in small letters by creeping vines of agony sprouting in my garden.

James introduced himself and picked me to be the first from the group to introduce myself. As I stood in everyone’s view, I heard the crash of my metallic armor hitting the floor. I knew without it my hurt presented a truth I had been ignoring. My courage shuddered as I told of the force of negativity tumbling me downhill and my broken spirit emptying onto the ground. As we went around the circle, I noticed how everyone lived in sadness. Different shades of gloom worked together to paint a picture of hope.

Gravity centered on me ounce again, and my sentences shifted from a trickling of water to a heavy downpour. The infection of my mind caused my words to swell. The group nodded in agreement about my overgrown hunger to be normal making me weak. They felt the heat from my fever. They saw the colors of my reality bleeding into each other. They heard the loudness of the world trying to consume me. They tasted the fruit that had been poisoning my veins. Everyone had the same craving for balance. Not the kind easily obtained by swallowing your disease down in a capsule, but the breeze flowing through the meadow holds me captive kind.

The two hours I spent with the different versions of me broke into pieces I could take home and put back together. I learned the illness in which I live with doesn’t diminish me, I diminish myself. If I live everyday in fear, I will die full of fear. If I choose to stay locked up in my house, I will never experience the blazing sun leaping into my fountain or my smiling feet admiring the green grass. The roots of my hatred are slowly being dissolved by compassion, resulting in the creation of my wings. The end of the day is beginning to remove his weight from my shoulders. I now consider it my duty to turn my depression into my salvation. My fragile sense of hope has been crested upon my own crown.

© 2010 Angel


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Reads almost like poetry to me. Eloquent choice of words. Fun read. Maybe more dialogue would make it more story-like? Just a thought.

Posted 13 Years Ago



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Added on June 5, 2010
Last Updated on June 5, 2010

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