The thing about depression is that it always speaks with just enough truth to be convincing, like the liar it is. I know, because I lie regularly to avoid any sort of confrontation. 

                That’s actually something depression advises me to do. It tells me I’m not strong enough to handle uncomfortable situations. It tells me I cannot stand up for myself, or solve my problems. The worst thing is that I consistently listen to it. I consistently feel all those words as the truth. So with something as simple as making an appointment for an eye exam or calling to work out a payment plan becomes something I simply can’t do. 

                It tells me I’m helpless and a loser, and when people want to confront me (or really, just ask me) about something, that’s my knee-jerk reaction.

                So whenever my mother asks me about anything I don’t want to talk about, I divert her, however I can. And I always think she doesn’t know, but she does.

                Then again, depression also tells me I’m fine.

                It’s been telling me that for the past few years.

                Except now I know I’m not. I see the beginning of a spiral. My thoughts become twisted, corrupted by someone else’s – depression’s – voice.

                So I’m back. Because I’m slipping.

                And I’m scared.