Dear depression, I hate your face.

I don't really have much more to say to you than that. Just that you kind of ruined my day by making me feel tense and fragile and oversensitive, so that when a library patron challenged me on their fines or whatever I was (mentally) like WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME A LIAR?!? And also for the headache and the backache and the weariness, thanks. Big help. And making every dream or idea of mine seem laughable before I even begin, especially when I need those to keep me going, when Dr. G says I won't be happy unless I follow my passions. I'm trying to put the seeds of my ideas in little greenhouses so they can grow big and maple-strong, and your claws slash through the glass like it's paper. And then you laugh.

(Depression, I think, looks a lot like Voldemort.)

Today was raw and tender when around other people or thinking of the future or thinking about other people I might have to be around in the future. And then weary and drained when I got home, but I pushed through it, because how we spend our days is how we spend our lives, and I'm not going to spend mine lying on the couch in defeat.

And now, a softness, a calm quiet strength.

I'm not tough leather on the outside, and I don't like growing spikes. I'm not great at calluses; I get scraped instead. I bruise.

But I know how to heal.