rheabhea

The make-up that I put on doesn’t enhance my beauty. Nor does it make me look pretty.

My make-up hides my true feelings. If it looks good no one can see that I was crying the day before. No one can see the dark circles because of the restless nights that have taken over. No one can see that I cried myself to sleep. No one can see that I truly believe that my depression has conquered my life.

With my make-up on.. No one can see the real me..

What is depression really? Is there one concrete definition, or has the meaning loosened as our generation has continued it’s downhill descent? To me, depression is simply my life. I’m not suicidal. I’m not a cutter. I don’t hate the world. I don’t dress completely in black. I’m just sad. I’ve been sad for what feels like my entire life, but that’s not true. I was happy once and I can vaguely remember what it felt like, but I can’t touch it. I can’t get that happiness back, I don’t know how. That’s what depression is to me, knowing what happiness is, but never being able to touch it, to feel it..