Sometimes he is the weighted vest from the dentist's office, sometimes he is the ankle weights grandma wore, and sometimes he is the pressure of a sinus infection. Your depression takes on many forms, but his favorite is the grime at the bottom of your shoe; regardless of how much you try, you can never get him off.

Sometimes she is a bee stuck in your throat, sometimes she is the vibration in your hands, and sometimes she is a punch in the stomach. Your anxiety takes on many forms, but her favorite is the voice in your head that tells you that everyone hates you; regardless of the music in your headphones, you can never drum out her screaming. 

Depression and Anxiety are madly in love and spend all their time together...with you. They use you as their date venue and all you can do is watch them as they flirt relentlessly with each other and kick each other's feet under the table, enjoying the view of the slit wrists,   trays, and cream-colored walls.

People need to get over their romanticization of psyche wards. Spoiler alert: they are not fun. You journal in your cream-colored room as the couple makes love in your mind. Their toxicity, drenched in their love affair, intoxicates you. You journal in your cream-colored room; your only safeguard. Sometimes the writing brings them closer, but oftentimes it tears them apart. Your writing makes them bicker and have off days, which is exactly what you need: an off day, from them.

“You’re a creative genius and I love you.”

“Do not show or share this to or with anyone.”

“I think it's okay.”

“No, we are not interested in publishing your piece at this time.”

“This is what you were destined to do.”

You write with a poison pen and pages that shriek. You write about serial killer hitchhikers, about mental illnesses, and about dystopian futures. Either your essay is an analytical work of art that looks at large concepts and themes, or it is a creative, dark, traumatic work of virtue. 

Your dad told you in the car last night that he thinks you are a creative genius and that you were born to write. This was after years of him being in and out of your life, being relatively homeless, and having a new girlfriend every month. After having that as your childhood, your relationship came to a standstill and has been stalled ever since: he cared too much about what was in the glass.

Your mom has always told you that you write with a poison pen and that your writings can be so traumatizing that you shouldn’t show them to anyone. This was after years of her being present, being there for you and your sister, and providing whatever you need. Her continuous need for a beautiful facade left your writing in the dark corners of the world, as she didn't want them scaring the party guests: she cares too much about her appearance.

Sometimes your dad is the weighted vest from the dentist's office, sometimes your dad is the ankle weights grandma wore, and sometimes your dad is the pressure of a sinus infection. Your depression takes on many forms, but his favorite is the weight of a disappointed father, 

Sometimes your mother is a bee stuck in your throat, sometimes your mother is the vibration in your hands, and sometimes your mother is a punch in the stomach. Your anxiety takes on many forms, but her favorite is the weight of an ever-watching mother.