Final Road Trip
By: Brianna R Duffin
Tags: Poem, Poetry On Medium, Depression, Mental Illness, Short Read

If Depression conducted traffic

The way it controls most other things

People wouldn’t judge my driving nearly as much

You see, it’s not me. It’s Depression.

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash

But I can’t use that as a valid excuse-

Honestly Officer, I didn’t do anything,

Depression was behind the wheel all along.

Depression is a teenage cry for attention, Not a diagnosis that garners sympathy casseroles

Even though I didn’t eat last weekend

Cause I couldn’t get out of bed for the life of me.

If Depression managed medication

With all the strict precision with which

It regulates chocolate cravings maybe

My body wouldn’t revolt so violently, so frequently

And then maybe I’d be good for something

Without constantly fearing my eyes deceived me.

Photo by Harry Quan on Unsplash

But the way it is, my depression only drives me

And I just think it would be so much easier

If we were all on the same page, because then

Every slam on the brake would make sense

Green light or no- stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

You’ll never make it. Stop. You’ve gone too far. Stop.

Where are you going? Stop. Do you even know?

Why are you like this? Stop. Go. Go.

No wonder everybody hates you- go faster.

You didn’t come this far to give up now- go faster.

Depression is erratic, unpredictable, and strange.

It’s foreign, it’s wild, a lion running across the plain.

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

Depression is the romantic version of death

The broken version of love, the sad version of hate,

The angry version of acceptance.

Depression is a heap of stepping stones on your chest

To remind you of all the places you cannot go. Stop.

When you see horses running through fields in movies

Equipped with saddle, bridle, and reigns yet missing

A rider- that’s the Wild West of Depression

Where the world awaits a crash sight to gawk at.

That’s me- tragedy worth head shakes not hand shakes.

Crash and burn. Failure is cheap. Stop, stop, stop.

A convertible can’t drive itself- Go. Crash again.

It wasn’t me, it was Depression.

Head throbbing, eyes burning, heart issuing empty threats-

I swear, this time I mean it, today is the day I quit-

Photo by Zoran Borojevic on Unsplash

Soul singing like a blackbird using the windowsill as a perch,

Delicate from head to toe, freezing you under its gaze.

Some days, I’m a dove- I promise I can chirp and sing

Right there with the best of them if you just open my box.

Some days, I’m an eagle- all courage and gusto, noble

Enough to take your breath away, free as the blowing breeze,

But don’t you see, I’m endangered and I’m missing part of me?

Some days I’m a humble sparrow in the back garden,

Quiet as a small town Church on a Friday night until

I cruise right into the screen door- Go. Stop. It wasn’t me,

Depression put my brain on cruise control last winter- well,

I wasn’t ready to come out of hibernation, so forgive me,

If you break into the house to find my table cluttered, shelves dusty.

Honestly, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen company here.

Candles would’ve been lit, music would’ve been playing

If only I knew when to expect the sunlight to swing by.

But can you blame me for throwing a bar or two on the windows

When all the smiles who break and enter disappear into the woodwork

The second I’m finished with the grand tour? It’s hard to be honest,

I’m doing it anyway. I don’t mind. Go- no really, go ahead,

I’ll be right here if you ever think of me, decide business like friendship

Deserves to be left finished, not stuffed in the back of the linen closet

Like a soap everybody wants to forget about instead of using.

Photo by Hieu Vu Minh on Unsplash

When God put me to sleep and removed my rib to make you,

I don’t know where he got the resentment, so I’ll say return to sender.

Resentment isn’t the imaginary friend to wrap a blanket around you

On the days when it gets you locked out of the house in a blizzard.

But, I was good to it anyway, because how could I be anything but?

If Depression didn’t pack so much luggage, I may have let it stay

Until death did us part. I know I think too much about death,

But I can’t help it when curiosity slithers down my throat,

Plants a garden in my stomach, and irrigates its own community.

There is no weapon in my arsenal for when that awful little need

Dances behind my eyes like this ghost town threw a ball-

Maybe I get overwhelmed too easily, but Anxiety and Depression Are enemies who share a tapestry’s worth of common threads.

They are a series of slaps to the face, not a cadre of fingers

Laced tightly through mine. Stop stop stop. No one asked

For reassurance. No one asked me if they could help, did they?

Depression is good at telling friends I don’t need shelter,

Depression is an expert at posting 824 pictures of the sunrise

When all I see is torrential downpour, more persistent than me.

Depression reminds me to turn on the lights. Anxiety asks,

“So what are you going to do now that your lights don’t work?”

If it was only Depression conducting the city traffic,

Life would be ever so much more pleasant, more liveable.

But no- I’m swirling and hunched over at the same time

Because my teeth won’t stop chattering even though

So many people stop to ask, “Why don’t you ever talk to people?”

Photo by Sam Xu on Unsplash

Stop, stop, stop. No- I have to go. Why don’t I understand this yet?

Depression likes to drive in circles, counting the miles.

Depression forgets about stop signs just like due dates.

Depression wonders where to go next, somewhere we won’t be found-

Stop. Congratulations, you’ve reached the end of the road. Now Go.