Ch. 5. From Under the Thumbs of Demons

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From Under the Thumbs of Demons

When writing so much about depression, one would begin to think that they have written all there is to know. But like the face of depression, new things are often discovered and brought into the light can be many more battles.

As I once coined, the War of Depression is not one single battle where we either win or lose. Rather, depression is a life long war with many battles; sometimes a new battle for each day.

What we must come to realize is that if we begin to believe that we may lose a single battle, then we may have already lost the war. To give up is but the most devastating blow to any life. A blow that can be felt in all whom surround us, a hurt that is felt in every heart.

Strength in these matters is something difficult to grasp. These demons of our minds are terrifying and to face them takes courage most men will never know. But if we can attain what we need to stand up against them, then perhaps our own bravery can spread like fire into the hearts of every victim, burning within them the ties that bind their minds to the clasps of the Demons. Hopefully, giving them the opportunity to fight back against their oppressors.

If this can come to pass, then let our courage be a symbol and tool of motivation to all whom suffer in the darkness of the human mind. Let our hope and our dismay be known to all who love us because in this opening of our hearts there is a freedom unlike any other. When we do this, we reach out our hands to them and say, “I can’t do this alone, I need your help.”

Depression is a part of who we are. It may have never been there before, but once it is there is no turning back. No matter how many cuts we put into our flesh, depression will never bleed out.

I see depression as a Demon because something so ugly, so resilient, has to be beyond human substance. It is not a part of my physical self, but the things it does to me can become a part of me.

When I lay down, it is not just because the day has made me tired, but because the Demon within me has taken and fed upon the energy of my soul. Slowly, but surely, he devours who I am and all the dreams I have ever known.

So easy it is to let go of the hands that hold me up. Like a wounded soldier I am lifted up and carried along by my comrades.

A day will come when the Demons of depression will be vanquished into the abyss. Demons cannot die, but they can be controlled. Their lives are eternal, but their freedom is not.

Place your palm upon my chest and you can feel my heart, listen to the beat and you can hear the song of relentless promise. I will never back down from my Demon nor anyone else’s. I have made my stand against them and I only ask that you offer me your hand, as I have offered you mine. Together we will rise above this and we shall find direction.

Years ago a hope was born. One that was beaten and broken. Still alive, it grew and beneath the shadow of a Demon it lived in utter chaos. Deeper and darker the hate of that Demon grew and all that was loved was lost. Shattered and mourned were the dreams of that hope and death itself came down upon him. As wretched as Death was, the relief of this pain was something that hope could not overlook. So bad, he wanted to reach out and touch Death and so he did, with his lips.

Misunderstood and mistreated, hope had nothing more to give and he believed that he had nothing more to receive. As Death delighted in the flesh of hope’s lips, peace came down upon them like rain upon fire. Banishing Death to the far reaches of the human mind. What remained of that August night was but the stillness of what had been. Silence and rain washed over hope like never before. For the first time in his life, hope was given himself. In the midst of that chaos he looked upon himself differently, for now he saw all things differently. But, for him this was only the beginning and the destiny of his journey to understand what had happened had now been made manifest.

Upon his path hope came across love, who never got to know its real self. Still battered and bruised hope knew nothing of love and love knew nothing of hope. But a connection had been made and a thread to their hearts had been sewn. Hope came to know love and love came to know hope. Love gave what it was to hope and now it is time for hope to give what it is to love.

Recommended Reading:

Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness

The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression


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