Dear Depression,

We aren’t great friends.

You have been hanging around for about two years now.

Twenty-four months.

One hundred and four weeks.

Seven hundred and thirty days.

Seventeen thousand five hundred and twenty hours.

One million fifty-one thousand two hundred minutes.

You have taken that time from me.

You have left me a hollow shell of the person I was before. The person who got invited out and actually had friends. But you don't care about that.

Now my only friends are Netflix and my bed. They are the only ones that do not judge me for not changing my clothes or brushing my hair.

You take and take until I am trapped. Trapped in my bed, trapped in the same clothes I have been wearing for days on end because I can not be bothered to get up and peel off the clothes that have now become a part of me.

My bed is my sanctuary. My bed is the place where I do not have to deal with people.

Everyone says why do you not go out? Why do you not go to parties?

Because no one wants to invite the black cloud to the party. The black cloud is something that will make everyone be in a bad mood. The black cloud is the cousin from out of town that you feel entitled to bring with you. But if you had the choice, you would honestly rather leave them at home.

I am not antisocial but people do not understand what is going on in my head. They do not know that I am constantly second guessing whether my friends actually like me or the feel like they have to hang out with me so I do not off myself. That is the friend that depression decides to bring to the party, their close companion anxiety. Anxiety likes to make you think that you are doing okay in the world and then they whisper in your ear how much everyone hates you.

Because everyone does hate you, right? No one wants to have to worry about the girl that is never happy. The girl who randomly will begin crying because she remembers how much she hates her life and the world she lives in.

You keep me tethered to my house. I can never escape without bringing you with me.

Do not worry about me though. You never want to get too close. People who get too close might feel bad if something did happen. They might start to feel like maybe it was their fault that you decided you no longer wanted to exist in society. They make it feel like you tangled them in your web of sadness or sank your claws in a little too deep.

Then you have your actual friends. The ones that would miss you if you died. The ones that would constantly rack their brain to think of what they could do differently for this to never happen again.

This is what it is like to live with you. You are one awful thought that I cannot shake.

Sincerely,