Things I Carry Quietly

Sometimes, survival isn’t loud, sometimes it’s simply the quiet act of staying.

It starts small—
like forgetting the sound of my own laughter.
Like realizing my coffee’s gone cold again
and I don’t remember pouring it.

I tell myself I’m just tired,
that the world isn’t dimmer—just overcast.
But the days keep folding into each other
like worn laundry,
and soon I can’t tell Monday from October.

I move slower now.
Even brushing my teeth feels like lifting bricks.
My reflection doesn’t meet my eyes anymore;
it just stares back, polite and distant,
as if waiting for me to speak first.

There’s dust on the dresser—
I notice it every day,
but somehow it feels like it’s winning.

People say, get some air,
but they don’t understand
how heavy air can be.
It clings to me,
weighs my steps down
until walking feels like wading through honey.

They talk about motivation
like it’s something you can buy
in the back of a self-help book.
But I know better—
motivation is a ghost that knocks softly
and leaves before I can open the door.

I’ve learned to fake the right expressions:
the polite smile,
the light chuckle,
the small nod when someone says you’re doing great.
I’ve become fluent in pretending.

Sometimes I almost believe myself
until the silence comes back—
that thick kind that hums in the corners,
reminding me there’s no audience
when the mask comes off.

Nights are longer than they used to be.
Sleep used to come easy,
but now it’s a stranger
I keep inviting in
just to feel less alone.

I scroll through my phone for hours,
looking for something that feels alive—
a voice, a face,
anything that doesn’t feel like me.

And when the sun finally rises,
I feel like I’ve already lost the day
before it begins.

I start bargaining with myself—
Just make it to noon.
Then, just make it to the end of this show.
Then, just one more breath.

And I do.
Over and over again.
Quietly. Without applause.

No one sees the strength in that,
but it’s there—
in the way I still get up,
still put on clean clothes,
still answer messages with words like fine
when what I mean is barely.

Some days, I catch a glimpse of something—
a song that still hits,
a stranger holding the door,
the smell of rain that reminds me
of who I used to be.

It doesn’t fix anything,
but for a moment,
I remember that I’m still here.
And maybe that’s enough—
for now.

Because depression isn’t loud.
It’s not screaming or breaking things.
It’s the quiet ache
of wanting to care again.

It’s learning to carry the weight of living
without knowing when I’ll be strong enough
to set it down.

And still—
I keep carrying it.