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When Depression Means You're Rarely Really Awake

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Do we open our eyes first, or wake up? The difference seems important to me, somehow, on harsh mornings like this, with heat and light pressing down through the plastic blinds of my bedroom window, casting bars across my face.

I turn from the severe light, writhing, my arms and legs in a tangle of cheap cotton sheets slick with sweat. There is nothing to fear in my own room, there isn’t any reason in it; I shouldn’t be tired after a night’s sleep.

I shouldn’t be sad about a new day. These things I would know if I could think, but my mind drifts in and out from incoherence to dread, and even in my most lucid moments, I cower from the onslaught of daylight reaching through my window like some great apathetic god, wrathful and intent on slowly

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