The guilt for being the reason my parents, siblings, friends, therapists, and doctors suffer is unavoidable. Sure. They want to be there. But don’t tell me they want to hurt. That’s bullshit. We all want some color of clean. Depression is not clean.
I don’t want people to suffer with me for as long as I suffer. There is enough suffering in the world without my contributions. But I can’t help it. The pain comes and stays:
“Having it Out with Melancholy”
. . .
Pharmaceutical wonders are at work
but I believe only in this moment
of well-being. Unholy ghost,
you are certain to come again.
Coarse, mean, you’ll put your feet
on the coffee table, lean back,
and turn me into someone who can’t
take the trouble to speak; someone
who can’t sleep, or who does nothing
but sleep; can’t read, or call
for an appointment for help.
There is nothing I can do
against your coming.
When I awake, I am still with thee.
. . .