Author's Note: Just a little scattered thinking. Wrote more for therapy than anything else.
The first time I realized I had a friend suffering from depression, I ran up, up, and away until I could feel my back cold against the dangerously slanted roof and watched the stars until I was freezing and could finally feel a heaviness similar to the sky and I regretted trading with Atlas.
It got to me so much more than it should have. I wrote letters - lots of them. I looked around for something beautiful, then wrote a letter for it, scribbled down, too messy, too rushed, and tried to ignore that inherent sinking feeling that was overwhelming me. At the end of the week, I piled my letters in a silvery box and baked some buttery cookies. And I drove to his desolate home and left it all stacked up on his bed and told myself that I was only feeling a fraction of his pain. I never intentionally turn someone else's agony into a reflection on myself, but it always seems to be that way. The chocolate chips and the letters worked, that time. He was better, at least for a little while. We've long since fallen out of touch so I no longer know of his condition, but I hope that he's okay now. I really do.
I can't help but notice all the pain. It's everywhere, woven into everyone's lives. One of my friends will be curled up in her car, worrying about that 70 on her latest exam; another will be bawling her eyes out because he hurt her too much. Again.
I listen to a lot of bad days. I talk with people I love over terrible moments and wonder if it's all out of our spheres of control. I feel so tangibly connected to all of the pain - like I am human and not, like I am close and disconnected.
Because no matter what, nothing hurts me more than nothing. Especially when I see the world, and it's swathed in pain.
That is the weight we carry.
