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“Why do you want to shut out of your life any uneasiness, any misery, any depression, since after all you don’t know what work these conditions are doing inside you? Why do you want to persecute yourself with the question of where all this is coming from and where it is going? Since you know, after all, that you are in the midst of transitions and you wished for nothing so much as to change. If there is anything unhealthy in your reactions, just bear in mind that sickness is the means by which an organism frees itself from what is alien; so one must simply help it to be sick, to have its whole sickness and to break out with it, since that is the way it gets better.” ― Rainer Maria Rilke

I disagree.

Depression is not an equation, a metaphor, a dream.
The suffering is real.
The breakdowns authentic.
The pain. Breathing.

We Depressees, have to defend our memoir, our right to hurt.

Depression has become a
Fad, an excuse.
But, when the noose is wrapped around the last minutes of life, Depression becomes dangerous.
A syndrome of something more then recognized sadness.

Well, let me tell you something:

I’ve endured Depression since I was eight.
I am now thirty-two.
This includes two experiences in
Mental Institutions, anti-depressants, three Suicide attempts, seven Psychologists, and two Psychiatrists.

What’s left?

I don’t have an explanation, but I know it’s better than this witty lyrical display of expiration.


Rilke, you were only driven under by love.
Love is a choice, an excavation for loneliness.
Depression is the agony of the unseen, a valley of memories, an imbalance of the most powerful device.
The mind.

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