"What's depression like?" He asked.

I carry around a backpack.

There's a backpack that I am carrying around with me, everywhere I go. Some days it's heavy and sometimes I barely notice that it's there. 

I would like to share with you what's in that backpack. 

I carry around anxiety. My social anxiety, my paranoia. My irrational fears, like staring people and scaring off people with kids for no apparent reason at all. My fear of feeling numb, my fear of feeling sad, my fear of letting down my friends.

I carry around my self-doubt. My self-doubt tends to weigh me down a lot of the time. It's basically always there. The feeling that I am not doing good enough, that I will never truly be good at anything. The scars on my arms which some days make me feel like everyone can see that I am a complete failure, even though I like to believe they show that I've survived what I've been through. The doubt that I am not a good friend and never will be. That I will never be able to do things for them like they have done for me. 

I carry around my PTSD, all the time, everywhere I go. It's there when I see parents yelling at their children, it's there when I see parents loving their children. It's there when I watch or read something about child abuse. It pulls back to the darkest days of my life. Places I don't want to re-visit, but it is not like I have a choice. 

I carry around my depression. My always lingering at the surface depression. My depression which has the talent of staying hidden for days and coming out when I am least expecting it, clouding everything in a shadow that is so dark and so dense that I truly can't see a way out. The depression that keeps me locked to my bed, staring at a white wall which has the tendency to turn into a display of pictures and short films of my past. 

I carry around my sadness. A lot of sadness, taking up a lot of room in the huge backpack clinging to my shoulders. Sadness which doesn't always, but some days comes spilling out in the form of uncontroled crying which can last for hours and hours. The kind of crying which leaves you behind empty and dehydrated. 

I carry around my demons. My demons who have gone more silent since I decided to put them down with medication and therapy, but sometimes manage to whisper ugly things in my ear. Who sometimes manage to poison my brain, so that I forget what I am capable of. The demons which I have given names and the demons who I can't seem to ban out of my life. They are always there, somewhere in a side pocket of my backpack, waiting for their time to shine. 

I carry around my guilt. My guilt towards my friends, for being so weak sometimes and unable to be there for them when they need me, because I am paralyzed by my own problems. Guilt is a dangerous thing, because there's nothing anyone can say to make it go away. 

I carry around my anger. My anger towards my parents, my anger towards my bullies, my anger towards the world. Anger is an emotion I don't feel that often. I am not an angry person. I am certainly not an agressive person. When it comes to fight or flight, I will probably freeze instead. But sometimes, my anger takes over. A rage that is so hot and so dark, that it burns down everything that is pretty and everything that is happy. I am not proud of my anger. I would say that I hate my anger, but that would probably come across as angry.

I carry around scenarios. Scenarios of ways my life could've gone if I was born into a different family. Or into a different body. Or into a body in a different country in a different family. How I would've maybe not have to carry around this backpack, but just a little box. A tiny box that would fit in the pocket of my jeans. How much easier that would've been. How much emptier that would've been, without my friends. 

I carry around my happiness. It's small, but it's growing. It's a little light bulb on top of everything else in my backpack. It's easy to reach, but sometimes I seem to have lost it, when it doesn't shine as bright as it does on some days. I try to hang on to that light bulb. I try to cherish that light bulb, look at that light bulb as much as I can. It's not easy, but I'm trying. 

I carry around my hopes and dreams. Hopes and dreams I am too scared to speak about because I am afraid I will jinx it. A believe that's a left over from the fact that not many good things seem to come my way. I work hard for my hopes and dreams, reaching my goals as I climb up some incredibly high mountain with a backpack similar to the weight of a thousand elephants dragging me down. It's a struggle, but maybe I will get there. 

I carry around my ideas. Ideas for stories, ideas for a better world, a better me, a better life. Ideas that I wish I had the courage and talent to display to the world, but I haven't mastered that courage just yet. Maybe some day. Yes, maybe some day you will read a book by me. Or see a movie directed by me. Or be able to call a foundation I decided to create, targeted at people like me. People with a very heavy backpack. 

I carry around many things. They are all stuffed away in this backpack. I wish I could tell you the size and the color of this backpack, but I am afraid I have never seen it myself. I can just feel it there. It is there. It is always there. And even though my friends are here, willing to take over some of the contents of my backpack, making it easier for me to carry, there are things they can't carry for me. 

I guess that's the real baggage here. 

- Ky