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Grieving and loss is like rain;

the way it feels, pouring down onto your skin.


You aren’t prepared for this kind of storm;

even if you have an umbrella or raingear.

Nothing can protect you from what is to come.

As you walk your way to your door,

umbrella held high,

the wind abruptly rips it from your grip.

You instantly become drenched,

and try to do anything to move,

to escape this horror and despair.

When you try to lift a foot,

you find your feet have been seemingly cemented to the ground.

You are stuck there.

Muscles tensing,

you try to break free of the captivity.

You scream at the top of your lungs for help,

but all passer-byers look at you,

and simply look the other way,

as if never seeing you struggling.

How could they do that?

How could they see your pain and desperation

but walk by as if you were nothing to them,

in perfect condition?

The loud, arrogant ones scream at you

“Just move on, it’s not that hard! You’re making a big deal of it. Ridiculous.”

Do they not see you can’t move?

You don’t want to be here.

Why would anyone want to be stuck in this pitiful state?

Vulnerability overtakes you

as you realize every little thing effects you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been stuck here

and you have no idea how long it will be until you are released;

that is, if you ever are.

Desperation fills your veins.

What’s your reason?

Why are you still here?

Why must you be so tortured?

You are willing to do anything to feel alive.

The rain hasn’t stopped,

and you don’t think it ever will.

It seems as if you are the only one being drenched,

and all the others pass by you,

wondering why you can’t you just be dry .

They tell you you’re a flaw,

nothing but a mistake.

They belittle you,

screaming about how it’s your fault you are stuck where you are.

They say it’s your choice to be stuck here.

You know it isn’t and you try to scream for help

and yell until your ribs shake.

You do anything you can think of just to get them to listen.

But they don’t.

You are all alone.

 You settle yourself into your mind,

knowing that is the only place you cannot be hurt.

Processing your past and what has happened

as well as what is to come in your future,

you explore your thoughts.

The past is unchangeable,

but your future is somewhat maluable.

You know your past will affect your life forever,

but you are…you.

You are strong and you are incredibly brave.

You have withstood all of this trauma

and you have not let it drive you mad.

You are aware people will judge you for what has happened.

You those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.

The earthy grip around the soles of your shoes begins to loosen,

as you realize you’re being set free.

Instead of jerking your feet out of the ground,

you wait patiently for the time to come.

When your soul is entirely free,

you walk home.



You are still drenched in water,

but your hair will dry.

The water will drain out of your clothing.

You will recover.

The stains left from tears and rain will always remain on your shirt,

sort of as a symbol for what you have been through

and what you can overcome.

You know your weaknesses

and you are discovering your strengths.






This, ladies and gents, is how it feels to be someone suffereing with depression. Not everyone is at any specific stage, in fact, not everyone makes it through. It needs to be realized how much society affects society.<

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