Alive or dead. Happy or depressed. Healthy or ill. Liked or hated. Thought of or forgotten. Abused or cherished. Bullied or treated fairly. Understood or miscommunicated.
  I don’t care. This is indifference.
I don’t care if my boyfriend wants to talk to me anymore. He texts me or he doesn’t. He loves me or he plays me. There are no more double texts; if he wants to talk we talk, but if he doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t. Simple as that.
I love him. I do. He’s all I care about anymore. But I’ve been stolen.
I’ve been stolen by this monster known as depression.
  Awake or asleep. Breathing or suffocating. Caring or heartless.
It doesn’t matter. This is hopelessness.
No one has explained to the children what exactly motivates a person to stare at the ceiling for hours on end. No one seems to know, however, what words to use to tell someone what compels people to go days with no voice whatsoever, or why on God’s green earth someone would feel better if, and only if, they saw their own blood.
  It doesn’t matter. This is despair.
Attractive or hideous. Organized or sloppy. Flawless eyeliner or bloodshot eyes. I don’t care if I have dark circles under my eyes. I don’t have a reason to care; I’ve earned them. There is no more foundation on my skin. He finds me beautiful or he doesn’t.
Does he know? Is he aware that I’ve been taken by this horrible, dark feeling I can’t stop?
It doesn’t matter. This is debilitation.

Reading or skimming. Writing or blank pages. Comments of support or empty text fields. It doesn’t matter.
Because this is depression.
Depression is not a pretty girl with dark eyeliner who sits in the back of the classroom, clutching a notebook and never speaking. It is not a black haired boy with lip piercings who has a dark sense of humor. Depression is the utter inability to hold a conversation with someone because you’ve lost all interest in what you used to love. It’s watching friends and loved ones turn their backs on you because your bad mood brings them down, too. It’s crawling into bed with tears in your eyes as you literally beg God to just kill you now. It’s pretending to laugh with your friends right after having a panic attack in the school bathroom. It’s acting normal when confronted with the question, “What’s wrong?”, or lacking the energy to take a shower when you desperately need one and you know it.
It is not cute.
It is not funny.
It is not a way to get attention.
This is depression. Deal with it, America. It’s time to wake up.