Article voiceover
When depression murders sunlight, there are two ways to use a knife: I can push the blade into my temple and shudder to the floor or I can slice open this avocado and offer slices to the ones that I love most. Don't become a ghost, I say to myself. Don't become a ghost. Depression doesn't suggest. Depression demands. Depression interrogates. Should I cease my life or should I feast with my children and wife? I’m forced to take this either-or test on too many days. Depression is a relentless clock, collapsed. Depression is is a compass, confused. Good-hearted people think there's a map. And, look, there's a map! Look! The ink is faded. Look! There's a blank space where the trail used to be. Look! I'm an Indian pilgrim. I'm an Indian pioneer. To survive, I need to accept my pain. I need to love my pain. Dear pain, I welcome you. Dear pain, take my hand. Let’s dance with joy and sorrow. Let’s sing with broken tenderness. Let’s drop our knives into the sand and find hope in this, in this, in this ramshackle caravan.
I wish there was a colloquial term for obsessive-compulsive disorder that better captured its realities. Anyway, thanks always for your writing on mental health. I first found your poems as a very depressed teenager over a decade ago and they brought me some solace and company. They still bring me solace and company now.
Absolutely. And now you point it out, you're right. The "C" sound does surprise. 😮 It is better. My apologies.