When you write..

Sometimes, when I feel this way I can write for hours. I don't even know what I'm writing about most of the time. My brain has all of these jumbled up ideas, things I feel like I need to explain.
Maybe they'll make more sense if I can see them. Words. Something tangible.
The words are never in the correct places, with the correct spaces or punctuation. They sit on whichever line of the page they please. They follow no logical, chronological rules.
Why should they?
Nothing else does.

Rules mean nothing.

I break the rules all the time. The rules of society, the rules I set myself.
I won't.
I shouldn't.
I will.

It means nothing.

And I hate myself for it. Because it makes me act as though other people mean nothing. Usually, other people mean everything, just not for a long enough period of time. While they're here its fine, they can keep me safe. When they're gone I need a substitute, something else to cover me, to provide a shelter from the words and images spinning around in my head.

Then the words stop. I know there is more to say but my brain freezes up.
I'm done. Don't make me think anymore.
Rant on all you want about feelings and rules and all release the anger you've pent up about other people, release your self loathing, self hatred, self destruction. But don't make me think about why.

We've covered this. We've analysed it. Half of it is a lie anyway.
No excuses. You know why you act the way you do?
Because that's the person you are. Not who you've become.
You know what you're doing, you could stop it if you wanted to.

Could I?
How?

Because no matter how many times I tell myself I won't. I always do.
I start untangling the knot that is my life.
The problem is, as one end of the rope is untangled, instead of coiling it neatly away my hands begin to get anxious, they start fiddling, toying with the fresh rope and before I know it the tangles are back. I'm knotted and muddled and trapped again.

Everything's Fine

Depression makes you fall out of love.

The person you're in love with can be amazing, lovely, everything a person should be.
They can drive 250miles to sit by your bedside.
They can play silly games with you.
Do crosswords with you.
They can tell you stories.
Tell you you're beautiful, lovely, fantastic.
And mean it.

They can be everything.

But depression will destroy that.

That voice inside your head will turn even the nicest things they say and do into acts against you.
Them wanting to spend time with you will become control.
Their consideration will become obsessiveness.
Curiosity is jealously.
The compliments they give you will become lies.
Physical contact will begin to repulse you.

And deep down you'll know that they deserve better. That they love you and you love them.
But the darkness will envelope you in hatred and you will start to push them away.

The months you were excited about, the future, plans. You'll begin to dread them, be uncertain, crave something different, something new and exciting.

And the irony is, they'll want nothing but to help you, to heal you, to make things better. And the more they try the worse you feel, the more it eats away at you, crawls inside of you.

You'll cycle.

Love. Sex. Love. Sex.

Hearts will be broken.
You'll feel guilty, but you'll be a coward. Because that's what depression is, its cowardly. Its a fear of fear, and most of the time you won't even realise that you're scared. You'll think you're just fumbling through life, fine.

Everything's fine.
Everything is fine.
Everything is fine.
Everything IS fine.