For all you know the person next to you has more shit in their life than you do, or me. And now you’re thinking, she’s wrong! I have more shit than the person next sitting next to me. And is that a contest you want to win? I don’t! I don’t!

This depression is not the cryptic voice of a mountain shaman, filled with deep truths waiting to be deciphered. It is apart from me. It’s goal is only pain, not enlightenment. It is the voice of a playground bully, intentionally finding old wounds to pick at, cruelly leveraging insecurities and cherry-picking past events to spin as negative. Nothing more.

Facebook is making me so depressed
I don't know if I can write this poem.

I had always wondered what the descent into hell is like. For the record, it was nothing like I had imagined. The drop was unknowing. It was innocent and comforting. I felt understood. The initial plunge into Satan’s lair was my first conversation with Frank.

We're all a little bipolar. The fucking planet earth is bipolar. We all vacillate between happy and sad.