I tend to put my heart into the hands of those who won't hold it. I trust too easily that they won't let go. That they won't drop my porcelain heart and shatter it into a thousand impossible pieces. Because nothing I do is ever easy. I'm messy and complicated. And when I break, I'm the only one whose hands know exactly how to handle the mess I've made. The shards are razor sharp. One wrong move and I'll pierce your skin and draw blood, so I won't let you help me rebuild myself. I know the cracks and fault lines in my heart like the backs of my eyelids. I trace them with my fingers, once I'm healed and again nervously placing my heart in new hands. As if running my fingers across the seams will somehow strengthen the fractured spaces. As if I can save my heart the breaking when it's dropped by these new hands. But I can't.
I'm unpredictable and explosive. I speak my mind even when I shouldn't; when what I blurt out is insensitive or offensive. I shout words and spit them out like poison-- the victims mere bystanders-- and disregard the aftermath. I deal in fixing others' messes, neglecting the ones I create for myself. I only then cry out when the stones I've tied to my feet start to pull me under the waves ferociously rocking my life. I only stop when it's too late to salvage the wreckage. But I refuse to sink, to give in to the dark, frigid, murky waters. I kick until I free myself. I fight like hell until my head is once again above water.
...and then I remember: I may have depression, but depression doesn't have me.
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