There are days
when the world sucks
at your feet,
when every step is a long
schhhhhhhllurPOP
of effort, as you grind
against the forces that hold you down.
Depression isn’t a fight, it’s a slog.
There are days when everything you feel
is caked with mud
and the mud isn’t yellow, or
white, or brown;
It’s grey, just
grey
and it fills your eyes, your soul
(For me, sleep is restorative
at least if I do it right
which I hardly ever seem to these days;
I’m sleep-challenged,
dysleepsic.
Oh, how I wish I could sleep.)
There are days
when all we can do is trudge onward,
onward,
onward,
trusting in the journey,
stretching out a hand to those who
trudge along our sides—
to help, or be helped;
there are days when you cannot tell
these things apart
(but you stretch out your hand regardless, hoping
that someone will catch you
and pull you on)
There are days
when the only sound outside
the constant clamour of my heart,
telling me to stop
to just lie down—
is your voice.
You.
Your hand.
Your hand looks different every time.
There are days when it looks like
puppies, frolicking in my feed,
or blessings, prayed through my inbox,
or just a simple hug
or a smile.
Either way, your hand is there.
Some days, it’s your hand that keeps me going.
Not fighting,
it’s not a fight.
Fights are active.
Fights are purposeful.
But I do keep going. Every day.
PS I’m okay 😉
PPS With thanks to @JessaKent, @jpantalleresco, @BookishBron and @theavandiepen, who have all been hands this month 🙂