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When Your Depression Cycles Like a Perennial Plant
I get my nails done every month. The nail artist places thin layers of acrylic, one after another, each one creating an impenetrable surface protecting my brittle, breakable nails. This act is a metaphor itself for depression and the ways “I’m fine, just tired,” or celebrations about work accomplishments, or posting pictures of myself and my cats creates a façade. I hide behind these words/actions, never letting anyone see the strategically, never pictured mounds of trash and dishes around my house, or obscuring that I have fully showered only twice in several months, or that I am numb, empty, and longing for death.