Obehi Aigiomawu – “The Thief”

Depression,
is a thief.
And every day, I am robbed;
Not of money or gold,
But of peace.
In response, I send in
Two pills (they were once three)
They go in armed to the teeth.
I tell them of what they need to bring;
My abducted hobbies and interests,
A sense of happiness,
A healthy eyesight to see hope with,
And the normal beating of my heart
That anxiety had snatched off my hands.
My therapist who prescribed them,
Told me they’d succeed,
I must give them nothing less than two weeks.
Each appointment,
Sees me spilling secrets.
A problem shared, is a problem half solved;
The other half, we live with.
I talk, I cry, I talk.
I wonder about what the doctor is scribbling.
He asks more questions and I oblige.
If this body cannot sleep,
How can my soul dream?
Two weeks go by,
And I almost doubt the pills succeeding.
There’s been fighting and negotiating,
But they don’t come back with what has been taken.

Instead of happiness and peace,
They come back with numbness,
They come back with sleep.
These two combined,
Are a shadow of peace.
Or the pale portrait that remains,
Should a pencil drawing of it be erased?
I grab at their offerings,
Gratefully.
Something, is better than nothing.
I tell them they’re hired,
They nod, they don’t seem surprised.
Sequels to my meal every night.
“But,
What are pills without hymns,
What are doctor’s orders, without psalms?”.
My mother gently places a Bible in my hands.
These days, I am my own detective.
I have sources, I have leads.
I exercise, when I least feel like.
I take advice
From those who’ve never and might never walk in my shoes,
Having a different shoe size.
Minds accustomed to a different version of sad.
I breathe in, breathe out.
I wait for Time.
Today,
I tell myself.
That my peace was never stolen,
I just haven’t figured out yet,
Where I kept it.

Photo by Nicolas D. on Unsplash