When it hits

At least I can tell when it’s coming,
and it always comes without fail,
this morose state of mind,
where everything goes badly wrong.

I’m alone and I tell myself
I’ll never see my children again
unless I’m put in a cage and watched,
a visiting prisoner,
an awful human being,
a terrible man and not a real father;
just someone who put young people on the planet.

At least I can tell when it’s coming,
when the numbness comes to play,
when I can’t even cook a pizza
without forgetting it’s burning.

I used to act with indifference when it hit me,
depression’s for wimps! I’d say.
I’d wave my hands with bravado
and suppress the pain with blame.
I’d turn the phone off and drink to excess,
smoke spliffs to paralyse my analyses,
laugh and shout like a fool,
pretending the anger didn’t exist,
when everyone but me could see
it was killing me;
a slow burn to death.

The mistakes I made
I asked for forgiveness
in letters to loved ones.
But those letters are now with me again
sent through solicitors
from loved ones
as evidence against me.
Someone once told me never to write to loved ones,
and now I know why,
but I had to ask forgiveness.

At least I can tell when it’s coming,
this freezing of my soul,
the inner child bursting,
to help me as a brother,
if only I could let him out,
perhaps he could tell me
where I went wrong.

These days, I can let it ride,
tell myself it will pass,
that life's full of ups and downs;
bad weather comes
and bad weather goes.

Depression is when my soul
asks to be loved.