I wrote this poem a few years ago, on a day when my depression seemed to be swallowing me whole. Some days I come back to this feeling for a while, especially when an emotional lifeboat seems difficult to find.
sinking slowly
kicking back to the surface
over and over and over again
until she tires of treading,
ever-treading
gently she sinks,
lips pressed together
in a hard line
until she rests at the bottom
where no one can tell the difference
between errant tears and the waters in which she resides
crumpled and frayed,
perhaps she can learn to
unfurl
to sway
like the graceful kelp
that stretches upwards toward the sun,
but for now, she cannot even open her eyes,
or imagine that somewhere there is light
and warmth
and sunshine
the pressure becomes a comfort —
something to hold her pieces together,
something to keep her from flying apart,
to keep her from dissolving into the aether above —
because it would be so much easier to cease to be,
so much easier for sentience to become scattered stardust
–Charla M. DelaCuadra
Pink&GreenMusings 
Depression is a horribly difficult thing. It’s difficult because it feels easy.
Easier, one feels, to float away than to confront whatever’s dragging oneself down.
But it’s important to know we can always surface, however difficult the compounding layers of water above of us might be.
I hope you’ve found air, and that you’ve enjoyed when you breath it.
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Thank you for your thoughtful reply and kind wishes! Most days are good ones and I’m grateful for them.
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