on a porcelain plate

  I used to explain to people that the amount of things my brain could do and process efficiently was measured by a single plate that I held on my flat, upturned hand. I would explain that before my depression (I didn’t know anxiety was there too), I would have the entire plate to use. What I could learn was on it. What I could remember was there. Everything my brain could hold and do rested on a white porcelain plate. When my depression came around, it upset the scales.

  My depression would fall from the heavens and clatter onto the plate pushing grey matter off. Then, my depression would grow- dark, thick and sticky. More things were pushed off the plate. Off slipped concentration. Off slipped taking care of my body. Off slipped things, things I used to love. Off slipped the ability to function properly. Off slipped pieces of me. Off slipped my life. I held a heavy porcelain plate topped with half a brain covered in black tar next to a dark mass.

  I spent the majority of my teenagehood sharing my head with this mass or covered by its goop. Now, the mass is not on the plate nor is it’s slime there. However, some stains remain in my memory and on the plate. The things I lost are still on the floor. I am slowly figuring out how to pick them up. But, it is taking time.



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