Depression is like a Storm


You're warned - there are signs. 
It starts to get dark outside, 
and on your foggy window is 
the soft pattering of rain. You 
know what's coming, 
and you're hiding in your room, 
in the corner, 
alone, anticipating. 
You know it's coming, 
and all you can do is wait. 
The increasing darkness is intimidating. 
Dark grey clouds, thick and heavy, 
stampede across the sky. 
Claustrophobic, you feel as if they 
crawl closer to your mind, 
encasing all of your thoughts 
in an onslaught of rain and wind; 
their hands cradle your skull in their palms. 
Then it begins. 
A mental tossing and turning, 
a chaotic destruction of the things 
that once seemed planted firmly, 
now thrown around like rag dolls 
by this angry thundering beast. 
Debris targets you; 
those sticks and stones that 
may break your bones do, 
especially when they are metaphors 
for the awful words that you tell yourself 
when you hold your arms up in surrender 
and in defense from the sticks that pierce you 
and from the stones that bruise you. 
They all remind you that you're weak and ugly 
and pathetic and worthless. 
They are metaphors for the disgust 
you have for yourself, 
a righteous rebel against 
becoming a societal product, 
and you really only hate yourself for it 
because everybody else does. 
As the storm relentlessly continues, 
you hope that the idiom is true - 
that words will never hurt you - 
but they do, and you know that. 
They echo in your skull, 
ricocheting off of the clouds in your head, 
reverberating like thunder. 
Flashes of lightning like flashes of memories; 
terrifying, unforgettable experiences 
that shape the unshapely mess that is 


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