Climbing

I’m in here. I am struggling to climb the high walls Depression puts around me. She puts walls around me and around my soul. Thick, masonry and concrete walls. No windows. No sunshine coming in. Just me and the beat of my heart.

The fire in my soul is still burning, still alive. I am not completely in the dark. Sometimes the 1000 abusive voices want to tell me that my soul has died, thus I have died, or I should die, but I can feel that fire, that warmth, that rhythm. I am alive. I am still alive.

I am touching the surface of the walls in the dark. Some of bricks are chipped. Maybe the prisoner before tried to smash the walls, the same way I tried so many times. But wait…this is my cell, I think Depression puts each one of her prisoners in different cells. Yes! This is how I remember it is, she keeps us isolated so she can control us better.

Does that mean that the chipped and crumbled bricks are the fruit of my struggle to demolish this prison? I think that’s the only explanation.

I can use them! As a “ladder”. A climbing wall. I can get out of this. I’m going to grip the little niches in the bricks. I am going to dig my fingernails into them and make an effort to drag myself out of this hole. I am going to do it until my fingers and hands get bloody. I am going to make it, I am going to make it!

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