At 28, I have a hold of my depression.

I’m not surprised when she comes to visit,

Hell, we’ve been friends so long that she has a key to my house..

She wanders in on the most random days and eats all the food in my fridge.

Other days, she’s there when I wake up, but she just wants to sleep all day instead.

I met my depression when I was fairly young.. Probably around fourth grade.

I can’t recall if there were any major triggers; but what is a major trigger to a ten year old? My best friend moving away? Getting molested? Who knows?

All I know is she’s been with me since.

For as terrible as she’s treated me over the last two decades: causing unnecessary drama, weight gain, weight loss, forcing me to quit things that I love, pushing away people I loved, making me want to kill myself at times..

For all those terrible things, she’s also the friend that’s been there the longest and the most steady...

I never question whether I’ll see her this week or not.... Cause I know I will.

I’ve even taken medication to get rid of her.. But it doesn’t always work..

Some meds have made her angry and apathetic- thanks Prozac- never again.

Some meds have made her visit me less often for shorter periods of time.

But I know she’ll always check in.

Ya know, that friend who texts you out of the blue to remind you of that time you two did that really awful or embarrassing thing?

Yep, that’s my depression.

So No, there’s no getting rid of her...

But honestly, I don’t know if I really want to; she’s been around for so long and I share so many memories with her.

If I were to get rid of her...

What would be left of me?

There is no more wax. No more wick.

That candle burned out two years ago and you don't get to try to relight it.

No use for matches or lighters or forest fires.

That candle is staying out.

That book stays closed.

Those pages will never be illuminated again.

Chapter after chapter and I'm done reading about us.

No more secret codes or blank pages of stifled communication.

I don't feel the need to write again in that book.

No prologue or desire for a sequel.

That novel will stay closed on my shelf.

I will look to it on rainy days and smile

about a past that brought me here.

See? There are little bits and pieces that make up who we are. Everyone has them. Some are sewn together with love, some pieces barely fit... so I’m never quite certain how they got there. I want to know everything about you. From your childhood to your adolescent years to your family and when you figured out you were queer. I want to know everything. So tell me the story about how you got here. I wanna know about your scars. I want to know how you got that cut on your upper eyelid. And the lacerations I can’t see. 

Tell me, so we can fall and find the pieces that fit just so.. locking into place, because when you body was next to mine it felt real. Like something was going to work for once. I want to know everything. Paint me the story about your first love and how it came crashing down like mine. We both know that life isn’t a fairy tale. But doesn’t this feel right? Just the way your hand found mine so easily that first night... I want to know. how... How we can make this work and start our own damn story. The one of how our jagged pieces combined from you and me.