Depression Has Become a Squatter in My House

Depression stumbles through my front door

and I welcome her

with a sleeve of chocolate chip cookies

and the password to my Netflix account.

I invite Depression into my bedroom.

I know I shouldn’t move so quickly,

but it just feels so right

and I was never great at resisting temptation anyway.

Depression falls into my bed and makes herself at home.

She forgets to turn the light off.

So we sleep with pillows over our heads

because the light switch is all the way on the other side of the room.

When my friends want to go out to dinner,

Depression tells me she doesn’t feel like going.

So, instead, we stay home and tell ghost stories:

She tells me the one

about the girl

in a haunted house

with many hallways.

From the windows, the girl sees a beautiful orchard

growing promise on its stems as bright as any apple.

But,

in Depression’s version,

the girl will never find the exit sign.

Depression has become a squatter in my house.

She is a shitty boyfriend you don’t know how to end things with;

An irritating aunt who has overstays her welcome;

An overzealous friend who eats you out of house and home.

I tell her it is time for her to go.

I tell her there isn’t room in here for the two of us.

Isn’t enough air in here for both of us to breathe.

And, for the first time in a long time,

I find the exit sign.