Depression: A Weed in the Garden of Eden

It starts like a weed in the garden of Eden, a thorn on a rose that goes undetected. It starts peaceful, like a river, calm enough that you can tell yourself there's nothing to fear. And then, as all living things do, it grows. First a tiny leaf sprouts underneath a willow tree, then a bud, then a flower blossoms so red and luscious that you can't help but be drawn to its dew kissed petals. So you pick it. And where that weed once grew, another grows. This time bigger, stronger, redder, and then another grows, and another, until the garden of Eden has a garden of weeds within it. But you think you can control it, it's just a garden. And the vines grow thicker and the soil richer and the roots deeper until the flowers can no longer be picked out of the ground. They're inside your world now, infecting your meadows, strangling your trees, until they're so big and strong and tall that they begin to block your sunlight. And the garden of Eden starts to become dim and dark and clouded until the lakes become mirrors of the world you no longer have. And you are alone. And you try to remember when the weed was just a weed, when Eden was just Eden, but you've forgotten every feeling you used to feel, every color's vibrance sucked out of a world you no longer know. And you are alone. And there is no sun, and there is no light, and there are no trees, and the world becomes hollow, and you are alone. 

The flowers don't bloom red anymore. The flowers don't bloom at all. And you water them and love them and will them to grow with everything you have and everything you are, but still they refuse. 

Is there any more reason to love? Is there any more reason to live?

The garden of depression grows strong. It grows big. It roots deep within you. It plants in you like a tree and grows there as if will stay forever, and sometimes you let it.  But somewhere inside is the girl who planted the garden of Eden, who brought the sunshine in and taught the flowers to grow. And on a good day in spring she will emerge again, and she will grow a new garden, one with a white picket fence and butterflies and meadows of lush green grass where barefoot thoughts can run. And the weeds still may grow, but this time she'll cut them before they can bloom into the flowers she used to pick so long ago. She will be able to run and play and never have to hide from the clouds that used to block her sunshine. 

In that garden, she will be strong. 

In that garden, she will be free.