With Nicco, I’d felt freedom unlike anything I’d ever witnessed before. And now it was gone, and I missed it.
I could feel the darkest parts of me bubbling up inside, teasing me with their impulsive charm and lure. The danger was calling out to me, and I didn’t know how much longer it would be until I caved.
I wanted to hate them all for leaving me, but I’d become so used to being dismissed, I didn’t blame them. Of course, that was the lie I believed to cover up the truth—I wasn’t worth remembering.
Deep down, I knew it hadn’t been real, just a passing fancy to occupy their time. I was one of many, and I didn’t even cross their minds now. I’d been forgotten, my purpose served, and now I was left discarded with the trash.
Looking in the mirror, I wanted to slap myself at the pain and fear I saw there. I didn’t want to be that person, but she was still there, lurking, waiting for her chance to return. That was the thing about depression; it sometimes felt like a layer of skin you had to scrub off to fully shake it. You had to go through the refining process in order to come out the other side. Some days, I still didn’t even feel like trying.
That was a truth no one ever told you. Depression wasn’t something you could smile your way out of, or fix with a few positive affirmations. It was hard work, and not every day was a win.
Squaring my shoulders, I challenged myself that it was only the weakness talking, that it didn’t matter if I hadn’t meant anything. They had to me, and I could miss them. But I wouldn’t let their departure affect me, because I chose to no longer be weak.
I ignored the fact I was lying to myself. Because which part was the lie?
The fact I thought I had a choice? Or that I’d ever been strong to begin with?