Everything is Water

Sometimes having depression feels like I have water inside of me, cold heavy water that sloshes around and makes me wonder if I am normal or if I matter or if I care.

Those are the moments I stuff the earbuds in and get lost in Sufjan Stevens and Sarah McLachlan and Iron & Wine.

Those are the moments I seriously doubt that I’ll ever feel happier, or that anyone could stop the tears that keep flowing, or that anyone’s ever going to answer these prayers in my head.

The water freezes my body’s natural defenses, the ones that fight off the sadness, that tell me I’m okay and everything’s okay and everything will be okay.

The water suffocates me and traps me in this dark, murky world of misunderstandings and loneliness and the certainty that no, it never gets better than this. What should have been life-giving is the blackest of holes.

I wish I could give some metaphor of a lifesaver, of Jesus Christ throwing me a flotation device or teaching me to walk on water. I guess this happens sometimes, or it would happen if I were closer to Him. Or it is happening, and I just can’t feel it.

But today, right now, in this aching body and exhausted mind and broken heart, I’m just tippity-typing on a keyboard in a university computer lab, trying not to remember my past or imagine my future or think about what’s going on right now in this little fishbowl of my life where all I can say is, “This and that and everything is water.”

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