Who knows how and why the demons come and go from the room in my brain.
They are cockroaches. They consume without hesitation, without empathy, without mercy. It is deafening as they infiltrate my mind. I clutch and frantically flail, grasping for the withering memories of happiness, laughter, peace, and hope. But my grasp weakens and the crumbs of my emotions are quickly consumed. I crouch in a corner, too numb to scream I tightly closing my eyes, hold my breath, and try to get used to the loud.
In an instant the noise settles and I slowly peak open one tightly closed eye. A light has been turned on and the creatures have scattered to their dark hiding spaces. As I inhale and open my other eye I notice the room is larger than I remember. The room is expansive… It’s huge, it’s overwhelming…. and It’s empty. Empty of stress, noise, grief, and dark… I feel relief.
Until I realize that the room is completely empty…of everything.
The cockroaches have scattered but have eaten all and have given nothing back. They have taken me. They have stolen me. I am not up, not down. Not happy, not sad.
And so I start, ever slowly and somewhat painfully to fill the room once again. Fill it with what I remember to be my happiness. Fill it with friends, with love, fill it with good food, and laughter. I fill it even though I more than often just want to sit in my empty because I know it will empty again. It will empty again I will start all over. And it takes time, it takes practice, it takes patience but I continue on with the empty and try. I fill it so I can wake up to my room and feel at ease, feel comfort, and peace. I feel it so I can feel like me. I fill it because even if it’s only for a little while there’s the hope to it feeling like home.
So it goes, a full room, the cockroaches, an empty room, and filling the room back up again. Again, again, and again. Because a cycle of depression takes away happiness, what feels like home, and what feels like me. It comes, it takes, and it leaves and it gives nothing back.