The walls are built too high; memories have become faded pictures. It’s colder than it used to be; it’s always cloudy and blue. The air doesn’t even smell the same anymore.

My mind used to be a nice neighborhood to live in, with a stunning view. Now the view is blocked by a building filled with graffiti; the sewer pipes are always bursting. I’m pretty sure they sell drugs next door – property value depreciates yearly.

From the outside looking in, I’m the happiest person you’ll ever meet. I always have a smile on my face, my laugh is the loudest, I’m the brightest colour in a rainbow; but looks can be deceiving. From a distance, I don’t cry myself to sleep. From a distance, my life is perfect. From a distance, I’m happy. Yet when you peel off the layers of my well-dressed skin, you notice the cracks, the dried tears, the pieces of my barely beating heart and the loneliness of a newly formed desert.

The corners of my mind are the darkest, there are always thoughts there that roam around to steal anything that brings light and peace. There are fading pictures that resemble my childhood; happy memories have changed their address – I can’t seem to locate them. This thing feels like chest pains, except you can’t locate your chest and you can’t differentiate between the chest and the bottom of your feet.

The first time someone mentioned the word “depression”, I thought it was some white people’s crap. I honestly thought this person was speaking to the wrong person; I giggled and said: “who, me?” with my eyebrows arched; but little did I know that was only the tip of the iceberg. My depression is mixed with some hot sauce of anger. When I’m happy, I can plant seeds that birth gorgeous roses and daisies but when I’m upset, I don’t care which bridges I burn and where they lead to; I could burn the house down with myself in it to prove a point. My anger is deadly, it’s an inferno. Now add a pinch of depression to that – you have a recipe for disaster!

I hate being sad. I hate living in pain; so believe me when I say, I know how to avenge myself from thorns that make me bleed. I can create smoke and breathe perfectly in the middle of it. My anger comes at me fast like the speed of light; I only realise it’s anger after I react.

Depression is a beating drum when all you need is silence. It’s a tablespoon of salt when all you needed was a pinch. It’s the sound of silence to a troubled and longing mind.

“Work with me,” I say to my mind when it starts to run around in its never-ending spiral. When the walls start caving in, I give my heart the hug it’s begging for. When everything begins to crumble and fall like pie flakes, I dust it all off and pick up the pieces that are still left – they might be worth something.

Allowing my thoughts to roam free without adult supervision is like allowing a tiger to freely roam the Alex streets; not only is it unsafe but it’s deadly!

“Hold your head up. It’ll get better,” says someone who has no clue what it’s like to have your mind be at war with itself. They have no idea how it feels to have your mind eat the succulent and juiciest parts of itself. It’s all a mindfuck really. My mind eats and sucks the skin off itself, leaving dry tasteless bones. It drains the youth off of itself, leaving wrinkles and old age. It feels like long traffic on a hot summer Friday. It’s a black room where nothing colourful enters. It is razor cuts, tight ropes, and pills. Days blend into weeks, weeks into months, months into years, years into decades, all in one thought process. Everything either moves at a furiously high speed or as slow as a tortoise smoking its grandad pipe, sitting under a palm tree. It’s an unending cycle. It goes around and around and around and around and around; okay you get the point. Some mornings, I feel a deep urge to peel off my skin and leave it bare but I can’t. So when that feeling comes, I shave off all my hair; at least I still have control in that department.

Life is for those who live it; we’re all dealing with some trauma. Some people aren’t even aware but it takes an amazing person to notice when that trauma takes a seat at the dinner table. It’s our job to chase it away and create space for happier and peaceful parts of ourselves. No one is responsible for making any of us happy. Our joy lies in the deepest parts of our souls. Ours is to find it and treasure it. It’s important to also understand that everything isn’t as it seems. Strawberries look scrumptious but they taste bland. Never judge a book by its cover.