The Blues. It didn’t occur to me how absurd an analogy to depression this is until I found myself annoyed to see it in the myriad articles on depression. Like a poorly made sweater, it doesn’t quite stretch over my head, and I can only fit one forearm into a sleeve because it just doesn’t fit. And I’m not sure I want it to.
Because depression isn’t blue. Because blue is too lovely and too vibrant and too calming a color for a condition so void of all those things, so void of everything. And honestly, those days when I wrapped myself around the pillow and hoped to sleep through the weekend, I’d have killed to feel Blue. The countless hours of burying myself under mounds of shame and anxiety, I’d gladly pass on to have the Blues. To feel Blue would have meant to be at peace. Or something good like that.