We all have that little voice that waits for any opening and whispers depressing things. There’s no real poitn to me saying this except to say I would feel like a fraud if I said “I’ve struggled with depression all my life.”

Ever since I began approaching adulthood, I’ve dealt with that voice. And I don’t believe there are real adults who haven’t conversed with that damn thing pretty regularly. At any given moment it’s whispering “This is too hard; you’d be better off dead.” And at any given moment I’m translating it to myself with different emphases: “I’d love to sleep for 10 years,” “My entire future stability depends on whether I can marry someone for their money,” “God please make me invisible,” “It’s my turn isn’t it? Is it my turn?” etc. These words are a reflection of my callousness – believe it or not, they are neutralizing the message that depression sends.

And there you have it. Human desperation and one more coping mechanism: translation.