This is what Dr Isherwood tells me is depression but it’s more like … nothing. That I am empty. Or that someone has scooped out my insides and filled me with concrete, grey and solid and heavy. And way down deep inside is a little piece of me that’s still there, trying to see and hear the world through the grey, but everything is far away and muted and so the good things don’t make me feel good enough because I can barely see or hear them.
