My lover, Deirdre, has been depressed since childhood.
She would look into the mirror and see depression staring into her. Vacant eyes gazing into an abyss which, in turn, gazes into her. Depression accessorized her; making bracelets upon her wrists and purple necklaces around her throat. It wore her nights down until her eyes constantly drooped and her mouth constantly hung. Her reflection was Depression.
They had grown up together… It was a bond I could never hold with her. They were with each other through everything- thick and thin. Mostly thin.
Depression wore her. He made her thin and made her insecure and made her observe the little things with care.
They had a sick relation with her twisting around him, answering his beck and call. Laying awake at night to hear him. Sleeping in with him. Talking about the future in the afternoon- the unimaginable and inevitable death that awaited. They made funeral plans together. They went on walks together. They stared into the infinite cosmos together and thought about nothingness together.
I was almost jealous of them. Angry. At him consuming her. At her letting herself be consumed. At me, for watching.
But… But I was also in love. With him. With her. With him for making her herself.
It’s hard to explain.
The lines between her and him blurred. Were they ever clear?
I adore Deirdre. I would build castles out of glass and wire for her. Make cake out of fire. Travel to the edges of this two dimensional world to give her something in 3-D.
She is depressed, and I am in love with her.
Her and her depression.