Four of the seventh of eight; Living with depression

You have this friend.

She cries, she laughs, she jokes and sometimes makes fun of herself just to make people laugh

and she cries again.

But she’s always that friend who’s okay with everything.

You put her in an uncomfortable situation, she tells you it’s okay

You tell her something that you actually know may hurt her a bit, but she tells you it’s okay

You forget about her, she tells you it’s okay.

She’s okay, most of the time.

Because she’ll never tell you when she’s not

She’ll never show you when she’s not

She wants to get mad. She wants to yell at everyone. She wants to find the blame. She wants to pull the trigger.

But she can’t. She desperately wants to

but she can’t.

So instead, she pulls her blanket and twists it on her fists

She curls into a ball and digs her head on her pillow

She tries to breathe normally, even when her tears won’t let her, she tries

She breathes

Her heart aches inside but she swear it also aches the way it does when you hit yourself into something hard

She shakes

but she breathes from her mouth making herself believe that she’s breathing it all out

It tastes so bitter. So odd. So ruined. So lifeless.

But she doesn’t tell you that. She can’t tell you that.

Because she believes that,

until you can keep it to yourself

until it doesn’t make any mess

until you can still wake up in the morning

until you can still forget for awhile

everything’s okay

She’s okay.

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