À l’heure du tout à l’image et du buzz sans suite, «l’express» souhaite faire découvrir la plume de poètes, de chanteurs, d’écrivains et de tous ceux qui jettent leur âme sur le papier, et qui mettent en mots des réflexions profondes.

Have you ever felt down?

Always feeling helpless or worthless?

No matter how many strides you make, you just can’t seem to be happy. Well, if you have ever felt this way, this could surely be a sign of depression.

In order to give you all an idea of my depressive episodes, allow me to share with you a story of one of my mishaps.

Well, if you asked me before this epithet depression stage, I would certainly tell you that if the rain of depression poured my way, I would definitely not be drenched. Even the happy lark sitting outside my window would have signaled its arrival, or even the cumulonimbus cloud would create an ironic weather.

But it did not send me his location when he arrived.

It slid through my window, where the pages turned out too fast for me to read.

Some torn pages must have slipped into me while I was in a deep slumber.

I was utterly oblivious to the paralysis taking hold of each of my bodily functions.

Staring at the ceilings and trapped between the dilapidated walls, all I could hear were excruciating voices shrieking inside of me. ‘It’s such a shame to be in full flesh’.

Little did I know, it was death itself twitching in my ears. As I failed to keep my head above water, abruptly, my ears rang, blurred of any outside voices.

I could not out monster the monster. And death kept scratching my back with caustic sarcasm.

I turned around while I was bedridden, and guess what I saw—it was the mirror.

The mirror itself disgusted me.

Death stood firmly beside me, as tight as iron bands.

And his thorny lips kept kissing my neck as if in love.

I started whimpering.

‘Please keep me awake, dad; sleeping brings demons, The future holds much promise.

Please hold me until morning’.

My eyes and lips were all leaking blood like an open tap. Doctors and priests said that exercising and futile rituals would help, and I wanted to ask them, ‘How the hell am I supposed to do that when all my senses have become numb?

The girl who once treated the word depression as a triviality now became the synonym herself.

It’s actually one thing to survive a traumatic experience, but to live with it for the rest of your life is another thing.

All I wished was to be understood, where the doctor’s concoction and the priest’s premonition were of no use.

My body was all the time twitching with tremors uncontrollably. How blind was I?

The demon was my depression in disguise.

Fighting them, gliding through all the barriers like a feisty heroine. Writing became my catharsis.

In this journey of grief, I’ve found solace in the flicker of hope, where I can erase and carve a new beacon of light through my ink.

BIO

At 21 years old, she is the official author of “Enigma in disguise”, published under the aegis of the Ministry of Arts and Culture. She is passionate about storytelling and explores identity and hidden truths. She writes to inspire and captivate readers.