I often see Depression as being the younger sibling of Death.
You know? The Grim Reaper, adorned in a tattered, deep black clock, clutching a scythe with his bony fingers. He quietly waits in the wings and silently, calmly, carefully takes you with him.
Sometimes you go kicking and screaming (I assume; I have not yet died) and other times you fall into his embrace, just as silently, just as peacefully as his demeanour when he takes you.
Silent and deadly, really.
That’s how I see Death.
Depression, for me, is not dissimilar.
Cloaked in an impenetrable black, foreboding and sinister. Not quite to the extent of his older brother, Death, weaponless in the physical sense. He carries no scythe,and I can never see his face or body parts to know if they are covered in flesh or not.
Depression isn’t quite as fatal or terminal as Death.
Depression doesn’t always have that calm and tranquil manner that Death carries, either. Whilst Death stands by, gliding in at the moment he wants you, Depression can come in raging and ranting, screaming at you and mentally body-slamming you.
Depression has learnt much from its big brother though. It