I didn’t know what depression was, I didn’t know I lived with it. It just felt like I was always thinking too much and never found the energy to say it all. Like something was stuck in my chest. An anchor that got deeper every time I saw more pain. I tried to speak through my actions; then I became silent. I started writing more because my tongue became so swollen with the time and silence that put me to sleep every night. I’ve made so many left turns since I started realizing what the fuck my body/mind/soul endured since I was 8. And now I’m here, thinking about when I’ll finally accept the fact that my experience is not linear, my life has not been lived based off of a timeline. I’m the epitome of out of the ordinary. Yesterday I started to accept that. I hope tomorrow I’ll begin to love it.