I Feel Like Something’s Wrong When I’m Not Depressed

I don’t know when it happened—

when the heaviness became

its own kind of home.

When the silence tasted strange

unless it carried a little ache.

Some days I wake up light,

breathing easier,

and instead of feeling grateful,

I flinch.

Like joy is a trick

and peace is just the calm

before the next collapse.

I look around for the darkness

the way other people look for keys—

worried I misplaced it,

worried its absence means

something worse is coming.

It’s messed up, I know.

But when you live in the storm long enough,

sunlight feels like danger.

Happiness feels like a costume

you’re afraid to wear too long,

in case someone rips it off

and calls you out for pretending.

I’m trying to relearn myself,

trying to believe that ease

doesn’t mean I’m slipping,

that softness isn’t a symptom,

that feeling okay

doesn’t mean something’s wrong.

But truth is—

sometimes I only feel real

when I’m hurting.

And I’m still figuring out

how to change that

without losing who I am.