Depression

By Megha Nayar

I have 102 degrees of cabin fever. It happens whenever I marinate in could-haves and should-haves for too long.

Do little things, says my therapist. Take a bath. Make your bed. Walk. Call a friend.

Easy for her to sing that song.

I’ve lain here for hours now. I last drank water in the morning. My armpits reek of yesterday’s sweat. My scalp has sprouted little balls of sebum that I scratch and weed out when I’m bored.

This can’t go on.

Out I jump, as suddenly as I’d slumped.

I step away from the brink, into the shower.


“I write because it is the only kind of validation I know.” – the writer

9 thoughts on “Depression

    1. Hi Dianne! Thank you so much for liking and commenting. The piece is semi-autobiographical, in the sense that I have never been on the brink of giving up, but I definitely do experience pangs of existential dread. I believe many of us are in this boat at the moment.

      I shall surely reach out to you on Facebook. Hang in there, the worst of the pandemic is behind us. Take care.

      Like

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