My dearest depression,

It’ll be… oh, goodness, four years this fall that we’ve been together. I would say I remembered it like it was yesterday, but one of the symptoms of depression is memory loss. So, I don’t remember much of our early relationship at all. But what I loved about you more than anything else was the way you left me feeling blank – really, most of my sophomore year of high school felt like the emotional equivalent of watching paint dry; it was heartbreakingly, painfully, maddeningly boring, with a little spice of self-loathing and fear of abandonment. Y’know, just to keep things interesting.

We’ve had our ups and downs. Sometimes you’d decide that you didn’t want to be exclusive anymore and you’d invite other symptoms, syndromes and disorders to join our relationship – there was the summer we spent deeply, deeply involved with anxiety, and the school year that our affair with that eating disorder almost went completely south. There’s been our one-night (two-night, three-night…) stands with obsessive and intrusive thought patterns, and sometimes in the middle of the night, I hear you moan the names of other lovers, too. Yes, all of your friends have left their handprints on my heart, and I’d be a liar if I said they sometimes didn’t come back to share our bed. But you, dear depression, are my soulmate, no matter who else is with us, for better or for worse…

And usually, it is for worse, if I’m being honest. But, we’re getting better, I think? I know you weren’t too happy when I started going to counseling in the spring. I tried to keep you out of it, but that was pretty counter-productive. When we left school for the summer, and found out that our counselor was leaving for good, you stomped your feet and yelled, “We are NOT! GOING! BACK! EVER!” … I’m still trying to figure out how to break it to you that we have to go back. We just have to. This relationship won’t work if we don’t put work in, it’ll kill one of us for sure this time…

You know you’ve already tried. Don’t get so defensive.

You’ve been so defensive, lately. What’s your deal, anyway? When my friends say anything to me, you have some kind of response. If they tell me how bubbly and happy I am, or how well I string together my words and make some kind of meaning from them, or tell me that I’m doing a good job, you pace around and huff. You scratch the insides of my wrists nervously, you mutter under my breath and say that I’m only fooling them and lying to them. And when I’m having a bad day, you lash out, too. You tell them that I’m a monster and that they should just give up on me… it hurts.

I keep suggesting that maybe we take some time apart, to figure some things out. But, you don’t like that idea.

Sometimes I think maybe you’ve changed your mind and left. Sometimes I come home and I don’t feel you there anymore – you’re not hanging around my neck, squeezing my stomach. I don’t feel your heavy body shuffling around as I brew my tea, do my homework, write my poems, watch my Netflix and live my life. Sometimes I think that I’ll get to spread out again, make my home my home. And, sometimes I do! And it’s great! I’ll go hours, days, weeks without thinking about you. But then, one evening, your suitcase will be laying open on the floor, you’ll be unpacking. I’ll feel your footsteps shake the floor, and feel the sheets rustle as you slide into bed with me. You will whisper in my ear that you’re so happy winter’s coming soon, because we’ll get to spend so much time together again. You squeeze my hand and when the morning comes, you press my shoulders to the bed. “Don’t bother getting up today, dear.”

Sometimes I try to imagine what my life would have looked like without our relationship being in the picture – if I’d never met you at all. But I can’t see it anymore. And maybe that’s for the best. Maybe we were fated to meet, in some perfect storm of genetics, environments, hormones and whatever else I want to try and blame these things on. Maybe this is just the way it was supposed to be. I used to be angry about this – “why me?” I never got an answer, and most days I try to dissuade myself from the idea that I even need an answer. I can’t change the past, I can’t un-meet my depression.

I can only move forward. I can only learn to love, love, love – no matter what my depression tells me.

With the kindest regards,

Me.