If mania is fire, depression is ice.
It crept in quietly—no warnings, no alarms. Just a slow, smothering frost settling over everything. The brightness drained from the world, one color at a time. My laughter felt like a lie, my presence like a burden. I wasn’t living—I was enduring.
There were days I couldn’t get out of bed. Not because I was tired, but because there was no point. Food lost its taste. Music lost its rhythm. People became noise. Even the things I used to love—writing, dancing, being near those I cared for—felt far away, like distant memories from another life.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t explode. I disappeared quietly. Depression didn’t shout—it whispered, “You don’t matter.” And after enough days of hearing it, I started to believe it.
Sometimes I wished for the mania again—at least then I felt something. At least then, I moved. Depression made me a ghost inside my own skin. I went to work. I smiled. I did the dishes. But inside, I was nowhere. I was numb and aching at the same time. People said, “You don’t look depressed,” and I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or just disappear for real.
But I stayed.
I didn’t always know why, but I did.
And maybe that’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.
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