The Battle

 Sometimes I wonder if I actually had depression.

I didn’t know that I had it. I might never have. Or do I feel the way because I have survived it? 

People lost their limbs. Cry. Make poems and haunting melodies of their days in battle, seeking a light that they cannot see and that they are not sure exists. 

Sometimes I wonder if I am a winner. Did I really go into a fight? Did I really win over the monsters?

But then, when I listen to their songs, when I look into their art, I am reminded of days devoid of feelings. Like a thick blanket draped over my soul that suffocates me. I want to throw it away, but I can’t. And instead, I huddle deeper into the blanket and find solace in the way it strangles me. 

Did I really win the battle? Have I really been in the battle?

At times, I refuse to speak out because the battle is painted as a ground only a few souls can leave living. The battle traps its fighters. Only a handful manages to get out. Most of them leave with the lights snuffed out of their eyes and their breath sucked out of their lungs. 

They leave the battle and their battered bodies behind and go to god-knows-where-hopefully-something-better-than-the-world-they-left-behind.

A few leave the place alive. With much help. Helping hands reaching out to the darkness to pull you out, as long as you let yourself be pulled out.

I got out of the battle alive, but sometimes, I still ask myself, had I really been in the battle? Or perhaps I was merely skirting on the edges of the battlefield and had a glimpse of the darkness that lies ahead. That perhaps I was never really in there. Which is why it was easier for me to get out?

Am I allowed to speak and sing tales of how I conquered depression? Have I really been depressed? Do I need to be submerged headfirst before I can claim the badge of honour saying I have fought? Or is it enough that I got in waist deep, clawed my way back to the shore to say that I did thwart it?

Say I did battle depression, how did I manage? Is the idea that I refuse to think I was depressed the reason for such? I am not sure. Perhaps.

I want to say this to those battling depression, that it may be one of the ways. But I am scared that they will think that I do not understand. I do. I may not understand it fully. But if we are all made with the same minerals that compose bones and teeth and skin and flesh, I got through it, and I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t, too.