I sit at my dining table and try to conceive a beginning to an article I don’t want to write. There are no catchy, attention-grabbing first lines manifesting in my brain. My hands begrudgingly obey my brain’s half-hearted command to start typing. Here I go--I am writing this article even though my depression is telling me not to, that there’s no point, that I’m not smart or perceptive enough to publish anything online, and that what I thunk in my stupid head isn’t important. Yet here I go.

Okay, I tell myself now. I have one paragraph down.

And there’s another. It’s only one line--fragile, not entirely necessary, but I’m glad it’s there. Writing this article feels like how it might feel to perform surgery on my mother: I have no idea how to perform surgery, but the stakes are unimaginably high. Because if I cannot write, then what am I? That is one of the fears that comes with depression. You cease to be yourself. The joy you once felt for engaging in certain tasks or hobbies turns to ash in your hands. This isn’t me.

Paragraph by paragraph, I move through this article, slowly, as though caught in the thick muck of a swamp. A brilliant day waits for me outside my window--golden autumn trees let go of leaves freely and without ceremony, glittering yellow against a sky the bright blue color of happiness. It’s a day to which I have no access. The walls of my apartment box me in, and it is dark inside. I cannot motivate myself to leave the space that suffocates me.

This article has no thesis. It has no message, no point, no purpose. Or, I suppose its only purpose is to be written. I have to try and break through this wall, this isolation, this closing-in thing my mind is doing. Writing the article is better than not writing it, because not writing it would mean slipping into the well of apathy, would mean allowing the thin arms of nihilism to wrap around me, make me disappear. The abyss is familiar, but it is still an abyss. If, mid-air, I can grasp onto something, anything, a piece of paper, a single word, and violently wrench myself back into reality--then I will.

So I try to grasp onto this article. It’s looking okay so far. It’s got paragraphs made of words. Isn’t that all an article is supposed to be? The words might look too hard and absolute to me right now, my laptop screen too bright white, but they exist. Existence exists. Immediately my mind says, “But!” and I silence it. I’m trying to pay attention to the feeling of my laptop keys warm beneath my fingers and palms. The sound of the airplane droning somewhere in the sky. The world feels frail as tissue paper, and behind it is the void. Should the paper tear… but I don’t want to think about that. I grab onto the tissue paper with both fists, just to feel the fibrous grains in my hands.

Okay. I have written the article. It is here. I have no conclusion for you, no closing thoughts, no easily digestible takeaways. For some reason, I feel like apologizing. I want to say: I am sorry that this is all I have to offer this week. But despite the inexplicable shame I’m feeling right now, I am glad my article exists. It feels as though if the article didn’t exist, then neither would anything.