My reality.

It's the bad place. The no good very bad place where depression holds everything hostage and I forget that it isn't always like this.

I forget all sorts of things. I forget that the laundry needs to be done, or dinner needs to be cooked, or that I need to mail that letter today.

I forget that I was supposed to return a phone call, make an appointment, take a shower.

I forget that I am better when I talk to people. That those people love me. That those people want to hear my voice.

I forget that I am more than this moment in time, that the depression isn't going to last forever.

I forget how to say things out loud.

It's a deep hole in the ground, this place, and it feels like every time I try to climb out my handhold crumbles between my fingers.

I want to live a story, one where each cycle of depression has less control than the one before. A story of forward linear progression. A story of increasing levels of success. A story where eventually I'm not ill any more, ever again.