Tired of Fighting

 Maybe the pharmacy changed the manufacturer for my anti-depressant. Maybe I need to spend more time outside. Maybe I'm not eating right. Maybe I need to exercise. Maybe I can fix this.

These are all the thoughts that are burning through my mind tonight, at 10 pm, as I try to decide what to do next. I am crying, for no reason, because that's what depression is. I am fretting about how my friend won't respond to my small talk texts because maybe she doesn't like me anymore, or so my anxiety says. So I do what I have been doing for years, the only surefire way I have to combat these feelings: I write.

I am so very tired of fighting depression, but I will not surrender to the despair. I take out my battle weapons: my writing, my water, my family support. I sit up and roll my shoulders back and I type. And in this way, I am fighting my war. 

The tears have stopped flowing now. This one thing, writing my truths-- this, I can do. This has held me up for years. This has given others insight and opened my online community up to hold me up and keep me fighting. I need that support now. 

What else is there to say? I tell myself to keep writing, keep spilling ink because at 10 pm at night that is what I need so I may sleep peacefully. I need the familiarity of thoughts on screens and the familiar click clack of keys as my words take form. 

Some people turn to substances, and I thank my lucky stars (or, more accurately, my parents and community) that I have found this productive way to express my pain, my stress, my battles. I don't know how far my words will reach tonight, but they are giving me peace. 

I started typing this post in tears and I am ending it with calm. The storm has passed, flowing through my thoughts into this post that maybe no one will care about but still it has given me something. It has given me freedom from the clutch that is depression. 

Depression, anxiety, and mental illness take over every part of life. I worry about my depression as I sit numbly, staring at videos and trying to escape into another headspace. I think about my ADHD when I walk, convinced that exercise will help; the doctor said so. Even the things I do not do because of my mental illness, my battles creep amongst everything I do. They scurry out at random times, taking hold of my mind and sending me spiraling.

But not writing. Writing is my sword and I am fighting back. When I am in my writing headspace, my mental illness is my audience instead of my conductor. It sits quietly before me, waiting to hear how I will transform my pain into truth. Into stories. Into love.

I am here. I am transforming and I am understanding. I am living. I am writing. And I will keep writing, because writing is my best friend and my battle partner, carrying me into peace.