if we knew each others secrets, what comfort we would find

Depression manages to creep in and dull the sharpest pleasures. But it is not sorrow that plagues me, but her cousin, apathy. This apathy is a physical entity, heavy, cloying and hot like tar. It weighs down my limbs and dulls my senses. I am feverish and impossibly drowsy under its influence.

Not even my boyfriend, who, sensing my distress, runs immediately to my side, can elicit more than the faintest angst in my ravaged emotional state. Thing is, he doesn’t care if I’m happy all the time. He doesn’t tell me to cheer up. He listens as I wallow in self-pity, not agreeing with me, but not arguing either. His simple acceptance of my mood is counter to my lament, and I have to fight the urge to push him away, to shut him out. I know I don’t deserve such unconditional love. Thankfully, few ever really get what they deserve.

More than anything, it is embarrassing. I shouldn’t be so weak, not now, after all I’ve accomplished. But even when I am at my best, I feel like I am always just barely making it. Just barely holding on, barely coping, narrowly avoiding disaster after disaster.