me and may 29 – 1:04 a.m.
if i could imagine my depression and suicide traits as a person it would be a ‘he’ and he wouldn’t appear anything like one would imagine. he would be of average height and look like an accountant or one that tries hard to portray one on television.
he would share with me all my secrets – all the things that i keep hidden inside of me that i am too ashamed to admit to and he would watch me cry as i relived every single last one of them.
he would remind me of what a horrible person this illness has made me and any progress on my part to be a good person to everyone else is just selfish and futile and what most people will remember me as after i am dead was the guy who could crack an occasional halfway decent joke but was for the most part a moody, fat, bummer of a dude who might have been famous if he could have pulled his shit together.
he would mock my funeral soundtrack and call me ’emo’ and a ‘whiny fucker’ and tell me that i am totally cliche and that people suffer worse than i do.
he would show me photos of every single person i have unintentionally hurt in the past and remind me of just how badly i fucked up those relationships.
he would be sipping on a shitty bear like coors light or miller lite or dog – ant – donkey piss as long as it was a light beer with fewer calories but more opportunity to give you the burps and farts and a next day hangover that made you feel like a dirty redneck passed out in a moth-eaten recliner in your garage with a steve miller band album playing on repeat after repeat.
he does this to me every day. no specific schedule, but he is never late and always appears at the most inconvenient of times. people, this is him who visits me every day – and even when i cannot see him, when i dare crack a smile, he’ll always announce that he isn’t ever far away and willing to tell it to me all over again.
when he is convinced that he has pushed me just far enough that i couldn’t cry any longer and was desperately searching through the prescriptions i have hidden away for such an occasion he would walk away and leave me to slice myself up with a dirty knife as a punishment of sorts.
he would find a street corner and begin speaking through a megaphone so that the whole world could hear. he would speak in absolutes and riddles that i couldn’t hear –
as i sat in the empty room. the empty motel room where one day they’ll find me on the bed and i want nothing more than to watch the appetite of the skies, to read greek mythology, and laugh at the boring color scheme of the room. i want to be beside a campfire reciting pornography haiku and the sounds of crickets and tree-frogs and a million collected whispers from the forest keep me company.
lalalala.
just singing until the songs become so unfamiliar and i can’t even hear the sound of my own voice over the horrible mocking laugh of myself.
alltheavenueslookugly 
You nailed it when you said that the person would remind you of what a horrible person ‘THIS ILLNESS HAS MADE YOU’.
Your not this god awful human that your viewing from behind your dark eyes right now, in fact your an inelegant man who writes with such conviction and heart, you tell of your journey with the bastard black dog, through the eyes of a male, and you write with such talent.
Ok so you got depression, and yes you have days that are worse than others, but you and only you have the power to either control the bitch or let her take over your world,
Im sure you already know this one, and I know I know that its easy to fucking well say cause I am not the one stuck with your particular black dog, but I do have my own black dog, and sometimes I want to drown that little fucker, god damn its not like he gave me the choice in weather I wanted to be the one who would be in control of walking with this shadow following me ;).
Your strong Sean, and your experiences that your living through now, will indeed enable you to help other people out there who have also adopted this bastard of a pet they call the black dog
((hugs))
thank you so much, angel. i really appreciate your support. you totally get it.
and i love the “bastard black dog.”
🙂
My depression would be tall, with dark hair and eyes like the sky. She would wear a pretty dress but be heartless; souless. She would remind me how I will never be as beautiful, as intelligent, as funny, as she. She has a high, mocking laugh that puts you on edge. She makes me angry, she makes me horribly depressed. She needs a bullet.
i absolutely love your description of your depression. it’s so real and so sad, and definitely needs a bullet.
Funny…it was never a person for me. It was a black landscape, a place I could get lost in and never return. Comfort, mostly. I like the line about passing out to a Steve Miller Band album.
it’s interesting for me to read different people’s opinions on what their depression would be. while i relate more to it being a physical person – maybe just so i feel like there would be a chance i could actually kill it one day – your image makes complete sense and saddens me as it is a lot more lonely and hopeless.
thank you for the comment, and please take care. 🙂
I concur with what Angel has said… she nailed it.
♥
she did a pretty good job, didn’t she? 🙂
hope you are doing okay, my friend. ❤
Actually I do hear voices telling me I am worthless and to kill myself or cut myself to pieces but I never thought about the identity because I was too busy trying to not hear it. Depression has always just felt like a deep hole I couldn’t nor felt worthy of being pulled out of. All in all, however we live it, it sucks.
Dot
i’ve heard – and sometimes still do hear – those voices. a million of them all coming from this same person. i tried for years not to listen to them, but then they got too loud, started screaming, and forcing me to listen.
and you can never never shut them up.
please take care.
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