Depression is not a Romantic Love Affair

If I were to liken my depression to a love affair,
it would be unrequited, neglectful and abusive.
I am sick and tired of reading romanticised bullshit,
likening depression to a lover who’s touch is addictive.

There is nothing romantic about blood pouring from self inflicted wounds,
I do not paint pictures with a razor on the canvas of my wrists,
frankly, I angrily and tearfully scratch the surface of my skin.
Out of self detest, despair and disgust at my being.
That is not romantic.

There is nothing desirable about being kept awake by haunting thoughts at 3am.
Sadness running through your blood stream like poison,
as you question what’s the fucking point in life anyway?
You are slowly dying
nothing you do will matter, so why not now?
That is not romantic.

There is nothing poetic about being bedridden by low self esteem,
or not washing for 9 days because there just isn’t a point to anything.
I do not hide beneath a 13.5 tog duvet in the middle of June because it’s charming,
but because depression left me listless.
That is not romantic.

There is nothing lovely about tears falling down my face as I attempt to speak.
Being convinced I was broken and unfixable at the age of fifteen.
Crying on bedroom floors and being deluded that a teenage boy with a bottle of cheap wine could fix me.
That is not romantic.

Depression isn’t a hopeless romantic, it’s a fucking disease.

Maya Abraham-Steele, June 2014

Written for the tumblr girls who think mental health is cute.