I’ve always envied people who sleep easily. Their brains must be cleaner, the floorboards of the skull well swept, all the little monsters closed up in a steamer trunk at the foot of the bed.
I suffer awfully with sleep insomnia due to my anxiety and depression. The insomnia itself is due to both a hereditary trait passed down to me from my father, as well as an extremely traumatic experience that happened in my early teenage years which clearly didn’t start off the insomnia but through looking back on myself I’ve realised that experience made it quite worse.
Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on…
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