Not just lack-of-sleep tired.
Soul tired.
Sometimes depression feels like an extra limb growing out of me; grotesque and oversized. Not something that could escape my notice.
More often though, depression becomes so innate that it is barely distinguishable.
It coats my insides in a death mist that slows my senses, blots my feelings and leaves me feeling little more than an empty shell.
I am a container of a hidden fog of gas so noxious, so insidious, that I can no longer recognise my edges. Perhaps then, that is partly why I need to be able to see and feel each rib; why I need to be small enough for me to hold.
A sense of desperation claws at the arid valleys of emptiness inside me.
On my 33rd birthday, I weighed 6 stone 8 pounds.
Less than I weighed when I was 13.
I'm trapped in a wire cage and, when I dare to look at the space inviting the unknown, I become so afraid and feel so broken, I dare not fly through it.
I'm left clinging to the perch, with an energy I can't sustain, in a very foggy, very frightening cage.
I'm so so so upset that I have let panic win today.
I'm sad enough to taste salt tonight.
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